


The Good Boy

by mee4ever



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Athletes, Bottom Newt (Maze Runner), Famous Minho, Forced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/referenced underage sexual abuse, M/M, Newt/Thomas is not a good thing in this fic be aware, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Prostitution, Protective Minho (Maze Runner), Pseudo-Incest, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Drugs, Running Away, Sex Work, Slow Burn, Some fluff too, Stockholm Syndrome, Top Minho (Maze Runner), bruh this fic is impossible to tag, i guess?, minor gally/newt, newt/minho endgame, pimp Thomas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-01-12 19:52:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18453482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mee4ever/pseuds/mee4ever
Summary: Thomas asks, “How would you like to work for me? I've got room for a blond little twink like you. If you're interested.”Newt wants to ask, clarify that he means as a prostitute, but he knows it already and Thomas knows he's not stupid. It sounds like a choice. It's wrapped up neatly and presented as if everything since last night hasn't led up to this question in particular. He nods after taking a deep breath, and says, “I'm in.”Or the one where Newt runs away and catches the eye of a manipulative pimp and falls for a famous athlete, and life keeps throwing him into trying and impossible situations.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware this fic has a lot of fucked up shit going on and I have tried remembering everything and tagged accordingly. if you have triggers, please tread carefully and contact me if you want to know anything specific. 
> 
> Please also note that the Thomas/Newt in this fic is nowhere near a relationship nor healthy in any shape or form. The romantic pairing is Minho/Newt which is fully consensual, and there's going to be a consensual (in as many ways Newt can consent in his situation) sex scene through prostitution. 
> 
> Newt will talk about and/or endure sexual trauma, suicidal thoughts and attempt, forced prostitution and be in situations he cannot control. He is 18+ in the fic but has dealt with sexual assault when underage. 
> 
> Oh , and also, this is based on a dream my [gf](http://www.crybabydraco.tumblr.com/) had a while back about the first car scene and I got a little inspired by it.
> 
> The fic will have 7 chapters. EDIT: Surprise epilogue written, so 8 chapters.

The dark blue Honda Civic that pulls up to the curb next to Newt is the same as the one that did the other day. Newt knows because the man behind the wheel is the same. Newt glances at him through the rolled down passenger window and continues walking. He's not interested in getting himself into more trouble than he already is. The water splashes around his feet. It pours heavily enough that whatever hits the asphalt doesn't have time to run away before new hits. It's been going on for soon an hour. He's soaked through and the heat pooling out of the car window is inviting on its own.

“C'mon, kid, I'll drive you home.”

Newt shakes his head. He burrows his hands deeper down the pockets of his hoodie, the hood of it snagging hard over his head. The cold seeps into his bones at this point and when the man keeps following in a slow pace, angling in the seat to look at Newt, Newt fights himself hard not to stop.

“You're out here again, and now there's not really any reason to be, is there?”

The man is in his lower thirties. Newt looks at him, shrugging, and sees only newly cut brown hair, clean-shaven face, reasonably nice clothes with a light button up and dress pants, but Newt would have to see his shoes to make a better estimate. He doesn't look like a serial killer, Newt decides, but he also knows that looks are deceiving.

“I don't need a ride.”

“You're soaked through; you're going to get sick.”

Newt hates that he's right. “There's nowhere you could take me, anyway.”

The look on the man's face is one of pity. It's better than expected. If it had been anything else, Newt would have bolted in a second. Now, he stops. The car slows with his steps and the man says, “My place is up a few blocks. Let me at least lend you a jacket.”

Newt looks around. The house he squatted in last night is off limits since he got caught leaving it, and there are more reasonable options he should take, but he's tired and hungry and wet and if he's killed in some rando's car, well, it's not much of a downgrade, anyway. He opens the car door and slides into the seat.

Water presses out of his pants and onto the leather seating. The AC blasts warm air in his face and the man rolls the window up with a button on his left. Newt doesn't buckle in, he only puts his backpack in his lap and he looks to see if the man will lock the door. He doesn't. It's not cause to breathe out, but at least he's not actively trying to make an escape impossible. The man smiles at him when he looks up, something lop-sided and not too psychotic looking to get out again.

“What's your name, kid?” He bends his head away from Newt to look out the window and takes the car onto the road again, increasing the acceleration to a moderate neighborhood speed.

Newt considers lying, but shrugs and says, “Newt.”

“I'm Thomas. Thomas Stephenson. Tommy to friends.” He flashes Newt his teeth and then keeps his eyes mostly on the road. Newt doesn't respond. Unfazed by the cold shoulder, Thomas keeps up a particularly one-sided conversation as they creep past the houses. Newt looks out the passenger seat window but only sees the water droplets hurrying down the glass. His breath fogs up the window and he draws absently with his finger on it.

“So, you've got no place to stay?” Thomas asks.

“Got a couple friends downtown. They're working.” Technically, it is true. It’s just that none of them wants to have Newt there even when they _aren't_ working.

Thomas takes the answer without questioning it. “I'm sure I've got something you can take that shields, better than that hoodie in any case.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

Thomas laughs quietly and shakes his head at him. Newt turns slightly more towards him and gives him a better once over. His eyes are brown, hands large on the stick shift and wheel, and he sits relaxed, leaned back in his seat. He doesn't seem to think Newt's a serial killer, either. Maybe he's good at reading people. Newt would exude a large number of things, but none of them a killing nature. The only person who's ever been in danger of his hand has been himself.

The house Thomas pulls up to is big and fancy.  It's nothing to what Newt had expected with the decade and a half old car, and when they drive into the garage, there are several other cars in there. Every single one is better condition and newer models—save the one in the far back that dates back to the sixties but is so pristine it must've never been driven—than the one Thomas swiftly parks.

“Nice collection,” Newt says as he gets out. Someone with this many cars does not kill homeless blokes off the street. That seems an unnecessary risk, especially if he brings them to his house to do it. He relaxes, an inch of his shoulder. The garage is colder than the outside and he starts shaking before Thomas has even had the time to lock the car behind them.

Thomas looks around at his cars. Next to the old school Chevy Camaro with two, thick white stripes over the blue hood, there is a slick, black cruiser looking more like something the President would be surrounded by than anything else, a poison green sports car that barely reaches Newt to the waist, and lastly, another black car that Newt, who's not even all that interested in cars, knows must also be expensive as hell because the little label in the front says “Bugatti” and that doesn't sound like anything like the cheapskate Opel his mother drives. Thomas makes an off-hand gesture at the Honda as he wanders off. “People gets so easily put off by fancy cars in these neighborhoods.”

Newt follows him through the garage, hands rubbing over his own arms to heat up again. “If I had a car like that”—he nods at the bright green car—”I'd never drive anything else.”

Thomas looks back at him and nods his head to the side. “A cheaper car has its perks. Like you would have dared to get into that one, looking like you do.” The remark isn't particularly kind, but Thomas says in such a way that Newt gets the feeling that he doesn't mean anything nasty with it. It's fact, and he's right. It does, however, sound like the plan had always been to pick Newt up, and that doesn't sit completely right in his gut.

There's a short walk between the garage and the house and Thomas sprints it. Newt takes it in long strides and he takes the stairs up to the front door two at a time, coming to a stop beside Thomas. With the key in the door, Thomas turns and smiles again.

“Already better than the piss-pour, no?” He nods to the roof of the porch deck. Newt looks around and shrugs. He's going to be out again in a minute, so he doesn't want to grow too comfortable.

They step inside and Newt feels his jaw drop. The inside is better than the outside. The front door opens up to a large hallway, a granite staircase with a swirling hand railing to the right and a broad corridor leading into the rest of the house to the side of it. To the left, the wall opens into a room that seems to never end, an array of windows on the far wall, a couch group. Everything looks immaculate, modern, black or white or grey. To the right, there's a closed door that Thomas approaches and flings open. The inside shows a closet. Thomas doesn't even have to turn on the light, it turns itself on. Thomas, who doesn't even wear a jacket, starts flipping through the hangers.

Finally, Newt remembers to close his mouth not to drool. Thomas looks back at him and turns on the spot, comes forward. “On second thought,” he says and looks like he wants to reach out for Newt. Thankfully, he doesn't. “We should get you dried up before you leave, don't you think?” Without waiting for a response, he goes on. “Get your hoodie off and we'll have a seat in the sitting room for a while, have a chat, what do you say?”

Nodding, Newt follows him when he takes off. Newt wants to take his sneakers off so he doesn't ruin the dark grey wooden floors, but Thomas doesn't kick off his own shoes, much nicer looking than his shirt—just like the cars—and just strolls into the seating room. He offers Newt a drink which Newt declines and Thomas pours himself a caramel brown liquid from a see-through bottle into a whiskey glass. Newt looks around, feeling more out of place than he's done in his life and that is saying something. He comes to a stop in front of Thomas who slips down in an armchair. He motions for Newt to take a seat. Newt looks down at his shoes.

“I'm pretty soaked. But, thanks.”

“Don't worry about it.” He looks up slightly, and Thomas looks to mean it. He even adds, “Do you want a blanket?”

Newt doesn't know what to do with kindness. He shakes his head and perches on the edge of one of the light grey cushions to Thomas' right. The backpack at his feet, two fingers looped around the strap.

“Where you from?”

“About.”

“How old are you?”

“Too old.”

“You go to school?”

“Finished.”

“Not college?”

Newt snorts. As if he could afford college. “High school, this summer.”

“Congratulations.” Thomas' smile is warmer than the room and the room is warming up his watered clothes and soul.

“Yeah.” For the first time, Newt smiles back. It's cramped and twitching; he barely remembers the last time he smiled.

Thomas—one ankle over his knee, his head in his empty hand and the glass between strong fingers of the other—flicks the glass once at the window. “I feel terrible, thinking about you going out there again.” Newt keeps his gaze. “How about a warm shower? You could borrow some clothes.” Thomas spins the glass in his hand. “Stay the night. Figure things out tomorrow.” The last of the liquor disappears down Thomas' throat. “What do you say?”

The obvious answer is “no.” Thomas is a stranger, Newt has only seen him once before, and he has never had luck with men who offer things to him. He knows, deep down, that he should leave. Shouldn't even have come here in the first place. But something pulls at him. The ease, the comfort, the warmth. He hasn't showered in too long now. The rain hides most of it, the greasiness of his hair laying over his skull like moist worms and the dirt of his clothes and hands and shoes. He thinks of how nice the shower must be in a place like this, how a bed must be softer than a cloud and… The house contains the sound of Newt's cough. “What do you want in return?” he asks.

Thomas' mouth twitches slightly on a smile. Newt knows the answer before Thomas even has the time to answer or object. He's not surprised. No one ever does anything for him for the goodness of their heart. There's always something they want in return. He has yet to learn to accept it, but it doesn't surprise him anymore. Thomas puts the glass down on a small table next to the armchair, his eyes on Newt as if assessing him again. “You're quite clever, aren't you?”

“I'd say I'm pretty average.”

His mouth drags out to a smirk, then. “Well, I'll be honest with you, Newt.” He leans forward slightly in his seat and licks his bottom lip. “I'm pretty sure that underneath those dripping clothes, I will find a dashing young man. If you let me fuck you, you can live in luxury for a night.”

Newt forces himself not to look away. He should be used to it, but not so often has he been subjugated to such straightforward language. The optional aspect of it is a safe way to lean against as he makes up his mind. Thomas isn't forcing him to sleep with him, even if the option to leave again isn't very appealing. Newt gives Thomas another once over, slower, deliberate. He's got a decade on Newt, but he's not old. He's in his prime, and he looks like he's taking good care of himself. Nothing gives off a creepy vibe, not even the slow smirk on his lips. He's reasonably attractive, Newt thinks, but it is the shower and the bed that makes him nod. “Alright.”

Thomas drags his thumb and index finger over his lower lip as if drying it of liquor. He stands, motioning for Newt to join him. “Let me show you the bathroom.”

~~

He stares at himself in the mirror when he gets out of the shower. It has fogged up and he has to drag the towel over it to see himself. He smells more like a man than he ever has, fresh and deep and sandalwood. He looks younger than he feels. Can he be forty-five in a nineteen-year-old body? His hair is too long, almost reaching his jaw at this point. It's darkened by water, but he can see how soft and smooth it is now compared to when he stepped in fifteen minutes ago. Blue eyes stare back at him. He has done this before. It's not like he's a beginner. He's even done it just for a place to stay before, too. But he has never been so explicitly given himself over like this.

He shivers and turns towards his pile of clothes on the floor. He can't put those on again. He looks at the closed door. Thomas surely wants to roll with him soon enough so maybe he should just stay naked. He takes a breath. Picks up the clothes and hangs them over the edge of a lion-footed bathtub. Wrapping a white towel around his middle, he picks up his backpack and unlocks the door, intending to step out.

The door catches on a bundle of dry clothes. He stares down at it before picking it up and going back inside. It's silky-feeling pajama pants and a brandless white t-shirt. No underwear. He doesn't think it matters much and slides the clothes on. The shirt sits snug, despite Newt wearing small, and the pants ties with a rougher material so the knot stays in plays when he moves. It feels weird, going commando, but there's no way he's going to put on any of his own boxers.

This time, when he emerges, he stops outside the door, hazing it closed with his foot. “Mr. Stephenson?” His voice catches and he has to call out once more for it to hold. “Thomas?”

Thomas leans out of a doorway on the opposite end of the corridor. “Are we not friends, Newt?” he asks before disappearing again. Newt swallows and makes way towards the room. His feet are bare against the cold floor, but he feels warmer than he has in a long time. Heavy curtains close out most of the light from outside, but the opposite wall of the corridor is painted with flashes of orange sunset. The rain smatters quietly on the roof. Newt feels like he's in a palace in a movie as he makes way to Thomas' bedroom.

If possible, the bedroom is even fancier than anything else. It has a more homey tone than anything else. The bed is wooden, chiseled and carved into a 19th-century feeling but with the undertone of a newly produced furniture. There are rugs on the floor, fluffy and dark brown, two dressers, a chair, a liquor cabinet, a chandelier in the high ceiling. A lamp on one of the bedside table is lit, and that in combination with the last flicker of sunshine lights the place up yellow and red, casts a long shadow from Thomas' frame standing beside the bed. He turns to Newt and his hair glistens. It's rather breathtaking.  It's not until he speaks that Newt remembers this is not actually a movie. “As I suspected: there is a very attractive person there, once stripped down.”

“You want anything special?” Newt drops his bag just inside the door and steps up. It's neither confidence nor submission. It's something more deeply rooted; an act of rebellion of which he wishes he could stop. But he doesn't back down. Doesn't run away. He stands tall and looks on as Thomas takes in the sight of him.

“You got tricks?” he laughs and sits down on the bed, patting beside himself.

Newt sits. “Not really.” With a teenage boy, the answer would've been yes. With someone Thomas' age, anything Newt would call a trick must be standard.

“You're not a virgin.”

It's not quite a question and Newt snorts. “No. No, I'm not.”

Thomas puts his hand on Newt's thigh, close to his crotch. It's warm and feels heavy with promise. Leaning in, Thomas only says, “Good.”

~~

Thomas doesn't ask for anything outrageous. He even goes through the motions to finger Newt until he's relaxed, and brings out a condom without Newt having to mention it. The bedsheets are cool against his back only for a minute as he lies down on top of it, naked, spread and slightly out of breath. Thomas is plain under his clothes. Soft-bellied but slim, strong arms, and his cock uncut and reasonably average. Newt knows it's not going to be a problem taking it. Thomas gets between his knees, towering over him, a golden chain dangling from his neck the only thing that covers anything of him. They look at each other. It's not a question in his gaze, but somewhat of a challenge. Newt doesn't know exactly for what. He ignores it, and turns his head to the side, still gazing up at him. It's the tiniest surrendering, submitting his neck to Thomas. Somehow, it's also a cue for Thomas to do whatever he pleases. One of his hands lands on Newt's shoulder, holding him down, but the pressure feels more like Thomas steadying himself rather than keeping Newt still. Either way, Newt only lets his legs fall further apart and lies still. Thomas' other hand wraps around the hilt of his cock, holding the condom in place as he moves forward and pushes himself into Newt.

Gasping, Newt's hands flies up to hold onto Thomas' upper arms. He's got a few tattoos snaking around his skin, and Newt covers them, digs his nails into them. Thomas raises a brow at him, but doesn't stop, only presses, sure of himself. Newt doesn't ask him to stop. Just gulps down the unease and forces himself to relax. Thomas pulls back, Newt whines, and when he pushes into him again, it's easier to take it. His fingers go lax.

It's not terrible. Newt doesn't know if that makes it better or worse. But Thomas knows what he's doing, he fucks with experience. Newt makes more sounds than he has to, but finds that at least half of them are exaggerated but comes from a place of real pleasure.

He tries not to think of why they're doing it. He doesn't want to think about that, so he focuses on Thomas' cars, his house, his words, his confidence, his tacky golden chain. How he had approached Newt once before, and how he'd so easily gotten what he wanted from Newt. How his words were honeyed like his eyes, and everything about him screamed of money except for the fact that he'd driven a cheap car and picked Newt off the street. He'd taken a stray to a mansion, offered lavishness in exchange for Newt's body. Deliberate and calculating. Almost like a test. And Newt puts it together quickly then. He curses himself for not piecing it together earlier.

Thomas must see the realization flash over his face because he slows down a fraction, an amused crease between his eyebrows. “What did you just figure out?”

Newt swallows, gasps out as Thomas thrusts into him again, and licks his lips before opening his mouth to form words. “You're,” he says and has to swallow before he can continue. “You're a pimp.”

The look on Thomas' face says he's quite impressed with that statement. “Oh, aren't you a clever boy?” he asks. “I do prefer the term 'Escort Manager,' but, yes.” He doesn't slow down further, only fucks into Newt like the conversation they're having is normal, and Newt clenches his jaw. Pushing the hair out of Newt's face, Thomas asks sweetly, “Does that bother you, sweetie?”

“I guess not,” Newt says and closes his eyes, bends his head back and whimpers as Thomas drives into him harshly. It's not entirely true. He feels deep in over his head, but Thomas is also plunging deep into him so what should he do other than accept it? He just lets Thomas take what he wants, giving back appreciative sounds.

Despite everything, if Thomas wants him to, Newt will surely be able to come. Especially so when Thomas takes his time, being old enough not to climax less than six minutes in, and builds up to his orgasm. He fucks into Newt rather nicely, he bottoms out on a good angle, the pressure of his body steadying, his breath harsh on Newt's face smells of strong alcohol but Newt likes it. He freaks himself out by thinking it, but the thought quickly disintegrates by Thomas's hand in his hair, pulling assuredly. Newt only moans.

It's easy to hear when Thomas is closing in, and Newt decides that there's no need to be shy. He reaches down and wraps a hand around himself, jerks himself off as Thomas fucks him hard and fast and comes inside him. Newt makes quick work of himself and tips himself over the edge within half a minute, Thomas just coming to a gasping stand-still on top of him. He spills over his own stomach, soiling his newly washed skin. They're both shiny with sweat, so maybe it doesn't matter anyway.

Laughing, Thomas says, “Maybe you should've showered afterwards.” He pulls out swiftly.

Newt doesn't particularly like the feeling. He's a bit sore, feels hollowed out, but he is heavy with sleep. Thomas goes to the bathroom and washes off, takes his time, and comes back almost ten minutes later. Newt hasn't moved, and Thomas ushers him off to go clean up.

Feeling his own cum running down his abdomen, Newt snaps up the borrowed clothes from where Thomas discarded them on the floor and hurries to the bathroom. He rinses off in the shower and pads himself dry with another white, fluffy towel. He dresses again, takes only the pants this time, and ignores the mirror.

When he comes back to the bedroom, it's dark. He can just make out the bed, and Thomas in it. Without a word, Newt slides down under the covers. He doubts it's a good idea to stay. However, leaving is worse at this point, so he settles, a distance between himself and Thomas. Thomas says nothing and Newt lies awake until he can hear that Thomas has fallen asleep. Only then can he relax enough to doze off, too.

~~

He's stirred awake by a loud ring-tone. His heart races and he scrambles, realizing slowly that it's not his phone because he doesn't have one. He falls back onto his stomach as Thomas comes out of a door to the en suite Newt didn't even see last night. Dressed already, his clothes look four times as expensive as they had done yesterday, and his hair is gelled backwards. He stalks up to his phone on the other side of the bed, having to round it in the process, and Newt cranes his neck looks at him as he walks. He wouldn't have trusted this person. Thomas, deliberately, had downplayed himself to get Newt to trust him. Now, it seems he doesn't have to anymore.

Thomas picks up after checking the number with a brief greeting and sits down on the bed. His gaze falls on Newt, and he reaches a hand forward to drag up and down his naked back. “I see, not a problem. I've got several available tonight. Alissa? Yes, she'd be delighted to hear from you again.” Thomas holds Newt's gaze as he speaks, a playful corner of his mouth quirks as his hand drags lower, over Newt's ass. “I'll let her know. Same as always? Splendid. Hm? Yes, of course. Yes. Seven-thirty? I'll make sure Alissa is there.”  Fingers run up Newt's spine and he shudders slightly. Newt doesn't need to have it spelled out for him that “Alissa” is one Thomas' girls. Thomas rolls his eyes at the person speaking on the phone and nods his head to the door before rising to his feet and walking off, assuring whoever he talks to. He disappears through the door.

Newt lies still for a while. Just breathes. Thomas' hand on him again wasn't bad, but it made bad memories float to the surface and he quickly stomps them out of mind. This is different, he tells himself. He sits, leans down to the floor, grabs his tee and pulls it on. Another day, another problem to solve. His shoes are thankfully dry when he puts them on.

The house is eerie quiet. It must be designed to be soundproof somehow because even with all the open space, there are never any echos of his steps. He walks down the stairs and makes way slowly through the corridor, guessing the kitchen to be in that general direction. There is art on the walls. The motifs are realistic, but the color scheme monochrome. Newt can tell by the lines and shapes that they're all by the same artist and he wonders who. The floor is cold against his feet so he moves quickly on. Thomas' voice carries out through an open archway to the right down the hall and Newt relaxes.

Newt stops in the arch. The kitchen is stocked with metallic appliance, an upside-down L-shaped row of benches in which the fridge, stove, dishwasher and sink are scattered within. Right in front of him is an oblong kitchen island, and above it, a rustic looking shelf hangs down, with various pots pans and tools dangling from it. Thomas holds the phone between his shoulder and ear as he cuts himself bread from a light loaf. He stands with his side to Newt, the island behind him full of breakfast materials. He looks up, motions with the knife for Newt to step in. Despite it being done with a sharp weapon in hand, it's an invitation, not a threat. Newt enters, ignoring whatever Thomas talks about and seats himself on a bar stool on the opposite side where Thomas seems to be seated.

Thomas turns, holding out a slice of toast to Newt. Carefully, Newt takes it and starts preparing his sandwich. Thomas' call ends soon enough and he sits down. “Morning, sweetheart.”

“Morning.” Newt doesn't look up, just takes a bite. To save him from awkward small talk, the phone rings again. And again. And then Thomas taps a number and calls someone instead. Newt eats his toast and fresh tomatoes and sliced mango and cold cut turkey. He wonders what it is like to be used to breakfast like this. He has usually been lucky if there have been breakfast at all, and usually it's been bland cereal and skim milk.

The phone quiets down after somewhat fifteen minutes. Maybe Thomas puts it on silent, or maybe it's just very busy during a short period of time, Newt doesn't know, but it doesn't call for quite some time. That gives Thomas plenty of time to talk. There's not really any difference from yesterday. He asks simple questions and doesn't seem to take offense over Newt's deflective responses.

“You know how to get home?”

“I guess.”

“You still don't wanna go?”

“Not really.”

“Aren't your parents going to be worried?”

“No.”

At the abruptness of the answer, Thomas wants him to confirm. “No?”

Newt clenches his teeth. “My mother doesn't care and my step-father—” Thomas only waits for the rest. “We're not friendly,” is all Newt can make himself say. Thomas accepts it too and moves on.

It takes Thomas a while, a dozen or so more questions of various sorts, but he sits back and starts: “So, I've been thinking.”

Newt casts him a look and nods for him to continue. Thomas closes his hands around the back of his own neck, studying him. An uneasy knot of anticipation forms in Newt's stomach. He's got an idea about what Thomas is going to say, and he grows wary that Thomas will make his next words an obligation.

But Thomas, yet again, surprises him. “How would you like to work for me?”

Newt wants to ask, clarify that he means like a prostitute, but he knows it already and Thomas knows he's not stupid. Instead, he just repeats, “Work for you?”

“Uh-huh. I've got room for a blond little twink like you. If you're interested.”

It sounds like a choice. It's wrapped up neatly and presented as if everything since last night hasn't led up to this question in particular. Newt wonders, if he hadn't figured it out yesterday, how Thomas would have approached the subject this morning. Would it have been more deception? Would he have played on his savior complex? It doesn't matter now.

When he doesn't answer, Thomas explains what it would entail. “You would stay here. I would personally see to your training; I have strict rules and I expect every one of my people to follow and I expect no less from new recruits. You learn, you use what you've learned when I book you, and I take a share of what you make. It's simple, really.”

Fucking for a living doesn't exactly sound simple, but it's not like Newt has better options. It would give him a place to stay, some money. He feels strange even considering it. To test the waters, Newt says. “Can I think about it?”

Thomas makes a gesture as a “be my guest” and only tells him that the offer is open until he's made his mind up. Newt nods and they finish breakfast.

“Do you have smokes?” When Thomas shakes his head, Newt asks if there's somewhere close by he can get some. Thomas slides him a tenner, nods towards the front door and says there's a bodega just across the street. Newt thanks him. He doesn't stop Newt when he leaves, but maybe he's aware Newt still has his backpack in the bedroom upstairs. In the worst case scenario, Newt could leave it. Not that he owns anything of value anyway. The shopkeep barely looks away from the TV behind the counter as Newt pays for his lighter and Lucky Strikes. Leaning against the outside wall of the bodega, staring up at Thomas' monstrosity to a house, Newt goes through consecutive cigarettes. The outside is less modern than the inside. It's mostly white, with black window linings, double floored with a terrace on the left side. It's devastatingly beautiful. Newt has let himself be used as a mattress to be allowed to sleep in shacks. Agreeing to Thomas' proposal and doing it for money just seems like an upgrade at this point.

He stomps out the second cigarette butt and crosses the street again. He seals his faith when he closes the door behind himself and sees Thomas in the armchair in the sitting room again. He looks up over the top of the Denver Post. He places the paper down in his lap, giving Newt a curious look. Newt thinks he can get used to him. He's going to have to because he nods after taking a deep breath, and says, “I'm in.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Thomas is the only permanent resident in the house, but Newt notices within the span of a few days that the house caters guest rooms which are occupied on occasion. Boys and girls in early to mid-twenties, dressed in tight jeans or dresses, comes and goes, sometimes only to speak to Thomas and hand over envelopes from bags and handbags, sometimes they use the shower and stay the night. Thomas introduces him if he's close by and if not, each and every person walks up to Newt and introduces themselves. He tries to remember their faces and names, but he doesn't know if he'll ever see any of them again, so it's not his top priority.

The house is Thomas' playground. He shows Newt the gym, a game room, a theater, and a sex dungeon. The last room, Newt thankfully finds sounds more intimidating than it looks. It's lit up pink and neon purple, a few drawers with lubes and condoms and toys of a large range of varieties, from dildoes and vibrators to crops and handcuffs. There's a large, circular bed that Newt finds rather tacky, and there's a harness securely fastened in the room, dangling down ominously. Thomas shows it as if it's just any other room and Newt can't help but stare at him. He wonders if, with time, he himself will be so used to these kinds of things that he doesn't even bat an eye at flogs. Thomas brings in people to the house in generous scoops. Friends of his, special clients every once in a while, and sometimes a boy or a girl in his employment that he brings to his bedroom instead of Newt.

Newt is assigned a room on the second floor, a couple of doors down from Thomas'. It has a twin bed and a drawer, some lamps, it's light and frankly, nice. Newt feels like he's living in a hotel room, and Thomas' meals make the experience even more so hotel-like. The only difference, he supposes, is the sex.

The “training” as Thomas calls it, consists of two parts. One part where Thomas lectures him about how to make a client do what you want, how to extract what the client wants, how to talk down someone angry, how to flirt, how to seduce. He makes Newt roleplay with him, and to begin with, Newt finds it silly. But Thomas can fall easily into different characters, shy ones, violent ones, cocky ones, and Newt thinks it's actually rather useful to be prepared as much as possible to what he can expect. The second part is the actual fucking. Thomas plays out an array of different scenarios with him over the course of a couple of weeks and gives Newt notes on how he handles them. It's so clinical that Newt barely registers it as sex. Some of it is slow, some passionate, some rough. Sometimes they help each other out, sometimes Newt just sucks him off. Newt doesn't hate it.

It's educational. Especially, when one night, Thomas becomes an entitled man with anger issues and a sadistic streak. He hits Newt in the face when he says something obtuse, calling him names, chokes him, and fucks him without any reservations to what might be pleasant for Newt. It's impossible to relax, Thomas doesn't listen to his pleas to stop, and it hurts when he drives Newt into the mattress, pressing his face down and fucks him lively. For the first time, Newt cries. Afterwards, Thomas kisses his back, dragging smooth hands up his sides and nuzzles at his neck. He doesn't say that he's sorry, but he does say that he thinks Newt should have an accurate image of what he will be facing once Thomas lets him out on jobs. Newt, silently, nods. He lets Thomas wipe his tears and dote him, make him feel all better again. Thomas always takes care of him. He sleeps curled up against Thomas' side, and for whatever fucked up reason, it makes him feel safe when Thomas wraps an arm around him.

His nights are split almost exactly half and half to his own room and to Thomas'. The routine of it gives him every other day to tend for himself, and Thomas the rest. He finds himself tingling of jealousy when someone else takes his place in Thomas' bed even though he knows it is stupid. He's just like everyone else. Soon enough, Thomas will start sending him on work, and he'll be reduced to a night here and there, just like Max, or Alexis, or Enrique. It takes him three weeks to get through one of Thomas' more extreme sessions on good behavior. He doesn't cry. He makes himself loose-jointed and lets himself be manhandled. He even manages not to lose his cool when Thomas spanks him. It seems Thomas is satisfied with this because he takes Newt to bed several days in a row after that. Newt almost grows used to sleeping next to him before he's once again back in his room.

He reads a stupid tabloid magazine, sitting on his bed when there's a knock on his door frame. He keeps his door open when Thomas takes someone else, he wants to know who it is. When he looks up now, it's Sonya. Long, blond hair, pale skin, and large eyes, she smiles with thin lips and waves at him.

“You still here?” she asks, southern dialect.

Newt nods. They met his first week here, and she's not been back since, but she is the one person he's seen around that looks the most like him that it has been impossible to forget her. Normally, he's the only blond and blue-eyed petite, but she gives him a run for his money. Thankfully, or perhaps because, she isn't a guy, and that's why they're both under Thomas' employ. He doesn't know if he's supposed to take offense of the question, whether it's meant to be an insult to him being seen as weak enough to drop out or strong enough to adapt. He decides not to dwell on it. Sonya dangles a glitter purse, silver, in stark contrast to her the tight red mini dress she wears.

“Newt, right?” she asks when she realizes she isn't going to get another response.

“Sonya, yeah?”

She nods and leans against the doorway. “He kinda likes you, don't he?”

Newt has recognized that most of the escorts refer to Thomas only as “he” but he has yet to figure out why. He shrugs. “You're here. Does that mean he likes you?”

Sonya laughs shortly. “It only means he wants what I can offer.”

“And what is that?”

She gives him a quizzical look. Newt wonders if maybe he sounded sour about it. There's no reason for him to be _jealous._ It's just stupid and he wishes he wasn't. “I'm not gonna make him wait,” Sonya says with a smile and she pushes up.

“It's a nice dress,” Newt hurries to say, not wanting her to leave with resentment.

She looks down and smoothes out some non-existing creases. “He likes red,” she says. The statement sounds like some sort of suggestion or advice. He cocks his head and nods, smiling slightly. With a quick look at him, she waves and tiptoes off in seven-inch heels. The last words sort of echoes in his head and he gets up to close the door when Sonya's soft moaning filters through.

~~

Sonya rolls by the kitchen in the same clothes as yesterday, makeup washed off but face pretty still. Her hand is already clasped around a grape from the fruit bowl on the island before she spots Newt leaning against the counter. She squeals and holds a hand over her heart. “Darn me,” she says, the southern drawl of her voice even more pronounced than yesterday, and breathes deeply.

“Morning,” Newt says over his cup of coffee.

Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she decides to sit down on one of the bar stools. “Got any coffee left in that pot?”

He considers telling her to get it herself, but he doesn't have any friends here and he thinks maybe he should get some. “It might be lukewarm,” he warns as he pours.

“I like it cold.” Sonya shrugs.

“Heathen.” Newt pushes the cup forward and they sip in silence. “Where do you live?” he asks after a moment.

The coffee seems satisfactory, and she looks up from it, a little surprised look in her expression. “Oh, we have an apartment downtown.”

“'We'?”

“Five girls. You've probably met them? Hillie, Alexis, Alissa, Caroline, and myself. There are a few collectives for his girls and a couple for the boys.”

Newt's mouth forms around an “oh” that he quickly takes back. It's not strange to think they would live together, but it does make it strange that Newt is here. Her surprise from yesterday had not been about him in particular, but the fact that someone was there at all, it just happened to be him. But, he tells himself, he's not allowed out on jobs yet, so maybe it will change with that. A little staggeringly, he wishes that won't be the case.

“So, he pays for your apartments instead of…” He waves around to indicate the house.

Sonya smiles like Newt's a little slow. “See, Thomas got us all in there,” she says, “vowed us in with the landlord and it's a nice place, but he ain't payin' no rent. He ain't byin' no groceries.”

Newt silently wonders if she's jealous of him. “You never stayed here?”

“I did. When he recruited me last year, I stayed for a week, maybe a week and a half, as he schooled me in. When I took my first client, I was out and only allowed every now and then.”

“You took a client after one week?”

Sonya looks at him, a hard look that doesn't ease Newt's sudden nerves. Her head cocks and with a silent laugh, she says, “He ain't letting you work yet.”

Newt bites down on his lips and shakes his head. “We're still…”

Sonya frowns. “What's he tryina do? It's fucking, not rocket science.”

Newt doesn't want to question it so he shrugs.

“But sweetie, you ain't makin' no money? He does what he likes here, but really you oughta start workin'.” That means none of the others get paid for their service either when they come here. Being here is the payment. Her brows are drawn tight and her mouth a concerned line. She looks genuinely troubled, but Newt doesn't think it's that big a deal. He rather live here than being forced into a collective with people he doesn't know. There's not a chance he'll risk asking Thomas about it.

~~

He needn't worry. It's only a couple days before Thomas comes into his room, smiling widely. “Sweetheart,” he says and seats himself down on the bed in front of Newt. “We got the runners tonight, a large booking, and I think it's a perfect opportunity for you to test the waters.” Newt discards his magazine, heart racing as Thomas continues. “They're a bunch of famous-in-their-field types, young and always looking for a good time. You wouldn't cater anyone special, so if you want money you use what I've taught you and you get one—or if you're bold enough: two—of them to get on ya.”

Newt just nods.

Thomas coaxes a hair strand behind Newt's ear. “You know anything about runners?”

Newt shakes his head. “Sports of any kind doesn't interest me.”

Thomas slaps a hand on Newt's knee. “Good. Don't want you making a fool of me because you get starstruck. We leave at nine-thirty, so look your best.” He leans forward and twists his head slightly to the side. Newt leans in and pecks his cheek.

“Alright, Tommy.”

But he doesn't feel alright. It's been a little less than a month since he accepts Thomas' offer, but the more time that has passed, the more comfortable Newt has become in this routine that they've set up. Fuck Thomas every other day, live in luxury. He fears that with the job, his first time getting someone else on him, he'll be reverted to the sidelines and into a collective just like anyone of the others. Newt grabs the sheets so hard his fingers hurt, but Thomas seems not to notice. He's halfway across the room before he turns.

“I do expect you to land at least one of them for a private show. Make me proud, sweetie?”

Newt nods, lump in his throat. “I will.”

~~

Surprisingly, Thomas comes with them. At nine-twenty, the downstairs floods with people. A half dozen, Newt and Thomas. Among the girls is Sonya. She waves at him when he pushes down the stairs, dressed from head to toe in black and tight clothes that Thomas has bought him over the course of his stay. He gives her a shy smile and goes to stand beside her, talking casually before Thomas comes to sweep them up. Newt takes in the sight of him, his square shoulders, popped buttons in the dark blue dress shirt that reveals a sliver of collarbone, the garshly large belt buckle of a dark metal bulls head, and the way his hands seems to slip over shoulders and lower backs as if all these people were here for him. He rounds them all up, three girls and four boys and leads them out to two waiting cabs in a rather energetic pile.

Sonya drags Newt into her cab, ushering him into the window seat as she crawls into the middle. One of the other guys takes the last and slams the door. Thomas takes shotgun and the cabbie chats with him. He cooly indulges. Newt tries to listen to Sonya but this is one of the few times in the last months he has left the house at all, so he stares out the window.

The houses they drive past are almost as decadent as Thomas', some with better gardens (especially the one with a _pool_ ) but they leave the fancy neighborhood soon enough and dwindles down a path of plain looking buildings instead. The road is smooth, Sonya presses up against him but out of lack of space rather than anything else. Newt finds he doesn't mind. Her presence, and even Thomas', eases his taut nerves. He shouldn't be. Thomas has prepared him for a long time, they've played out so many scenarios. But it's about to somehow become real. Thomas is one thing, Newt knows him, knows what he's capable of, knows what he wants, and what he wants Newt to be and behave. Anyone else will most probably want something different.

The city is painted black and yellow, with hints of all colored neon lights and commercial screens. Newt watches it fly past him, anticipation rolling in his gut, clothes constricting to his body. He doesn't wear any jewelry, but he wishes he did because he doesn't know where to put his hands.

Sonya talks to the other guy when Newt has dodged answering a few too many of her questions. Newt is the only newcomer. Every one of the others have worked before, most of them for well over a year, and everyone seems to have worked this particular job before. When he could listen at all to Sonya, she'd said the runners are “nice.” Apparently, as Thomas had said, just looking for a good time. Newt thinks if people want a good time, hiring hookers isn't the easiest, nor the least expensive, way of doing it.

They roll up to the second cab as the other escorts exit it. Every one trickles out impressively dressed and groomed, straight-backed and casually talking, laughing. Newt says nothing, only follows as Sonya takes him by the hand and they head towards their destination. They have arrived outside a pompous hotel, white marble, and aristocratic architecture. Newt knows nothing of wealth or how things play in high-class circles, but he can pick up an expensive hotel when he sees one. These runners must be packed with money.

Thomas grins at his shocked expression when a doorman opens the gate for them, and he takes the lead into the lobby. The inside of the hotel is brisk and open spaced, gold plated staircases and white lace curtains over frosted windows. The front desk is a dark brown monstrosity, three white women with blond hair behind it. A few guests launges in the red armchairs to the left and there are three elevator doors to the right. Thomas only has to flash teeth at the woman in the middle in the reception before she greets them warmly and gives the room number. They've been here before. They're known. They're welcome and, maybe, even expected.

They all cram into an elevator, Newt and Thomas at the far back. Newt doesn't know exactly how weird his brain is wired when he feels instantly calmer as he feels Thomas' hand slide down into his back pocket and squeeze his ass. Carefully, he casts Thomas a glance, but Thomas keeps his gaze at the numbers changing from one digit to two, up to the higher thirties. The only indication he's doing anything is the tiny quirk of his mouth. Neither of the others notices, at least no one comments. Newt's heart sort of swells. He has gotten used to Thomas's hands on him, his face, his lips, the sound of his voice. To know that beyond this elevator, someone else will begin to touch him is daunting. But Thomas thinks he's ready. And there's no arguing with Thomas.

The corridor that opens up for them has only three doors. They're white and intricately chiseled, and the escorts trickle out of the elevator towards the one on the opposite side of the elevator. Thomas' hand slips away. Newt quickly emerges from the elevator behind the others, not wanting to be left and accidentally lifted to another floor. The floor on this level is carpeted, to dampen any and all sound of people walking and their entourage crosses the hallways like a wave. With each step, Newt can feel reality catch up with him, fast. He's with a beautiful bunch of people and they're there to work. Soon enough, he'll be on his back, taking cock from some rich kid just like anyone of the others. Except, of course, for Thomas.

Thomas announces their presence with a few hard raps on the door. It takes a second, two, before it's swung open. Newt, in the back, can't exactly see the guy, but he hears him. And his team. There's a cry of excitement from all of them, music pounding out almost like a physical barrier. Newt recognizes the beats of old school Britney Spears, with brawly voices singing along to Hit me baby one more time, and it hits him for the first time that both Sonya and Thomas meant it when these guys want a good time.

The hotel room looks more like a grand and expensive flat than somewhere you'd go to have temporary accommodation in a foreign city or country. It contains a large open space with room to fit all of the escorts and the seven or eight guys already present, with couches and armchairs, loungers and for the more adventurous, carpets so fluffy Newt's not sure he would see his shoes if he stepped onto one. The other escorts trickle into the room towards the runners, splayed out on the different seats but rising on their approach.

With ease, Thomas commands the whole room his attention. “Boys! You know most of everyone, but before we get started, I'd like to introduce our newest addition.” He motioned for Newt to step forward and Newt, a little unsteady on his feet at the undivided attention of fifteen people, placed himself beside Thomas. Putting an arm over Newt's shoulder, Thomas asks, “Want to introduce yourself, sweetheart?”

He's glad that Thomas has told him that as long as he listens to a name, he can use any he wants. The only problem is that he hasn't chosen any other and he doesn't want to use his own. But, to his aid, the runners scrambles forward to shake his hand and introduce themselves. He shakes hands and smiles, saying things like he's excited to meet them. Every one of them except for two looks at him that he's a special brand of candy and Newt realizes there are only two completely straight guys on the team. Without wanting to, he flushes at the notion. When they've all shook, Thomas tells them all to have fun.

The guy who opened the door, Ben, broad-shouldered, tall, dark blonde short cropped hair, raises his fist and calls out, “SHOTS!”

Newt takes a second, catching Thomas eye and receiving a nod in return. The rule is two shots and two drinks if you can hold your liquor. Newt can't, so he's going to take it very easy. But this first shot, he's never going get out of that one. The shots are being poured and everyone talks, the music somehow not breaking the voices. Everyone has a shot glass and they clink them together, spilling over on the hard floor. Newt kicks it back and joins the others as they cheer.

The runners, it turns out, are a team of relay runners as well as a couple of short distance ones, and some of them also do several of the events. Newt gets to know because the guys want him to know everything about them. Newt doesn't have to worry about talking to them because they do most of the talking and he only has to agree and nod and smile and not look bored. It's fairly interesting, so he finds it easy to indulge, but he doesn't dare to do any of the things he sees his co-workers do. Hands on thighs, chests, in hairs, leaning into personal spaces. Instead, he uses every lesson in talking that Thomas has taught him. Improvise and stay positive. If the questions need a negative answer, answer instead not with the actual answer. As when the guy he talks to, Gally, with a hand on a bottle asks if he likes red wine (which Newt hates), and Newt doesn't say no, but instead, “I do prefer white.” He smiles and Gally gets him some white wine instead. Not that Newt exactly likes white either, but he can sip it and since he doesn't want to get drunk, it works. He knows he should get this guy in bed, make sure that he doesn't let Thomas down. It probably wasn't going to be hard, the guy is looking at him as if he wants to devour him. Easily, either of them could slip away as any of the others of their respective friends had. Most of them are still left, but at least three couples had already filtered off.

With a large nose, strangely shaped eyebrows, and too long black hair, Gally isn't exactly what Newt would call attractive at first glance, but he has an air to him that draws Newt in. He's confident in a way that goes beyond looks, and that, somehow, makes him more attractive. Gally touches his arm. He's the first man to touch him since Thomas started, and it's not bad but it takes Newt by surprise. Enough so that he doesn't notice the other guy heading for them before he's right up in their space, his hand on Newt's wrist.

“Sorry, Gally, you can't have him.” Newt looks up and finds an eighth—ninth?—runner staring down at him. With the possessive grip and announcement that basically Newt is his, he would've thought he'd find an intimidating look on the East Asian face he turns towards. Instead, it's rather neutral, almost bored. He doesn't know if that's a bad or a good thing, but he stands, without having to be told. Gally, looking rather offended, surprisingly doesn't argue. He looks up at the newcomer and when he has accepted the statement, he even grins. Newt's heart pounds.

The new guy drags him off, and Newt has the time to realize he's not half as nicely dressed as the other. He wears casual dark sweat pants and a deep purple henley, and no shoes, just white tube socks. He wonders if the guy had even considered the party bustling around them. His hair is the only indicator he didn't just get dragged away from Netflix and a pint of ice cream, where a faux hawk is nicely done with his black hair. He must be in his lower twenties, and he seems so desperate to get Newt out of there that Newt's fairly certain it's going to be a quick first affair for him.

He's dragged into a surprisingly large bedroom. He guesses when the guy closes the door behind them that with the whole hotel and first room, he should have been prepared for this to continue into the individual bedrooms. He strolls into the room, finding in him as much confidence and ease he can, and he moves a hand to unbutton the top one of his shirt. It's clear they're not going to waste time, so he figures there's no shame in starting.

The guy turns at the door. He looks at Newt who has his fingers on the second button, and the guy takes a quick step forward, holding out his hand. “That,” he says, pinched, “isn't necessary.”

Newt slows and lets the button remain closed. A little suspicious about the sudden change of heart. He has a phone in one of his back pockets, Thomas on speed dial, for emergencies. Thomas even is in the other room, so it wouldn't take much time for him to come even. However, Newt was expecting to use the contents of his other pack pocket—lube and condoms—and feels annoyed it couldn't just go smoothly. The guy takes another step forward, carefully, like Newt's a wounded animal. As he does, Newt wonders if maybe he's just shy.

“How old are you?”

Newt knows his face smoothens out in surprise, but he quickly recovers. He knows the answer to this question. He steps forward too, hands behind his back, looking up through his lashes. Sweetly, he responds, “How old do you want me to be?”

That was not what they guy expected, either. He looks so taken aback he looks disgusted. “Your real age,” he says.

Newt wants to shrugs, but refrains. “Nineteen.”

“No way.”

This time, he does shrug. “I don't know what you want me to say here.”

The guy shakes his head. “Do you have ID?”

Newt scratches his eyebrow and licks his lips. But he does have his real ID and Thomas has said to always comply. Confused, he digs it out of his phone case and with his thumb over his real name, he holds it forward so the guy can see his birthdate. Newt thinks that with a contact like Thomas it would be easy to get a fake one, but they guy seems pleased with what he sees. He visibly breathes out.

“Sorry,” he says, half smiling. “My team insists on having some of Stephenson's people over when they throw larger parties and although I don't exactly approve, there's not much I can do about it. As long as everyone is a legal adult, who am I to interfere, you know?”

Newt realizes then that the guy thought he was a minor. That was the only reason Gally couldn't have him, that's why he dragged him away at all. “Okay.” He doesn't care if this dude sees himself as a savior since there is no one to save. Even Thomas had been particularly keen on knowing Newt was old enough to fend for himself. Newt hugs his own arms and hates that his age is always so important to everyone.

“Okay,” says the guy. Then it's settled: Newt's a baby-faced nineteen-year-old, and the guy doesn't know what to do because he does nothing.

Newt puts his hands down his front pockets and looks at him. “So…?”

To deflect from the obvious, the guy says, “I was a little… late to the party, I didn't catch your name?” Judging by the look of him, he hadn't intended to ever join the party.

After the first fiasco of turning the question back on him, Newt hears himself say, “Call me Isaac.” He feels as soon as he says it that it's a bad idea. He hasn't been Isaac in a long time. Lizzie always called him “Isaac” and he hasn't ever heard the name towards himself since she disappeared. It's years ago. Almost four.

“Alright, Isaac.” Newt was right. Hearing the name makes his heart clench for a time when he had a best friend, where life was relatively fine, and he was just a kid who had yet to encounter the worst days. Newt feels himself fumble. But the guy sees none of it, not in his eyes or his posture, and he only says, “I'm Minho. Nice to meet you.” He even holds out his hand. They shake. It is not the kind of touching he had imagined would be happening.

Newt, despite not being interested in sports, realizes that he does, in fact, know about Minho. He has become slightly obsessed with tabloid magazines lately. Once or twice, he's come across Minho's name and picture but in regards to his very famous Instagram account rather than his up and comings and accomplishments as a sportsman. It doesn't change anything, except for the fact that Newt's surprised they have managed to keep the paparazzi away. He guesses that it's of the highest importance not to be caught with his dick deep in a hooker. Top rated athlete with seven million followers on social media, buying his way into bed with a guy. Newt isn't impressed.

Newt stands a little closer to him now after shaking his hand, so he takes a small step forward. Again, he says, “So…?”

“Im—” Minho shakes his head. “I'm not interested in… that.”

Newt clenches his teeth. It would have been good to just get this guy. But nothing ever goes easy for Newt, and he can't lose face just because of it. He smiles and holds a hand up as if to silently say that it's okay. “I'll better be going, then.” He stands still because Minho stands in his way. And he doesn't move. “Uhm…” He takes a step forward again trying this time to indicate he wants to step beside him, and Minho still doesn't move. Newt turns on the charm, a hand hanging in the air between them. “Look, hot stuff. I'm here to work and if you're not interested in the service, I'm pretty sure the guy you dragged me from would like it if I got back.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“You're kinda…” He indicates the door and Minho blocking the path between that and the bed.

“How much do you charge?”

Newt, surprised again, just looks at him. Can this guy make up his mind? He gives a base amount, sets it higher than Thomas has told him to do just for the shits of it. If this guy wants to buy him, he better pay after all this bullcrap.

“I'll pay you that if you stay with me instead.”

Newt cocks his head. “Instead of…?”

“Fucking Gally.”

“I'll fuck you without you paying me not to fuck him.”

“I don't want to sleep with you.”

Newt blinks. “Right.”

“Just stay here with me.” To emphasize, he does finally move and gets out his wallet, pulling out bills and putting them down on a high dresser. “There. So?”

Newt, who has mentally prepared himself the entire day to the notion that he's going to bed with his first client tonight, doesn't know what else to do than to ask, “You do know that you can get, like, whatever you want?”

Minho sits down on the bed, dragging his feet up and under the covers. He picks up the remote and puts the TV on, volume low. “I don't want you to fuck Gally.” He pats the bed beside him. “Stay here and talk to me. That's what I want.”

It's incredibly mind spinning to get down on the bed and do exactly that. Minho doesn't once overstep his own boundaries when it comes to what he says or does, they only casually watch CSI: Miami and _talk._ The answers he gives are mostly true, and if not, they resemble the truth well enough that it's believable. He doesn't think there's any reason to lie. And Minho is a talker like the rest of his buddies.

“We're trying to make it to the Olympic team, but we also know that Sokolov and Johnson aren't going anywhere for another couple years, which means we are only four that will be elected. It's not ideal and there's some rivalry already, but once the four are recruited I don't think all of us will ever run together again.”

“Do you think you'll be chosen?” Newt asks. Even as sport uninterested that he is, he knows the Olympics are a big deal.

Minho laughs. “I wish, and I work hard for it, but it's no way of knowing at this point. Ben holds the fastest record, but I suppose I'm more consistent.”

Minho leans back and slides down slightly, back against the bed frame, his neck bent too much. It can't be pleasant but he sits like that for a long time. Newt sits cross-legged and accepts some chips when Minho fishes them out from under the bed. Another episode of the show starts and Minho bets him a chip who the killer is.

The two hours Minho has paid for passes surprisingly quickly. Minho won the chip by guessing the right murderer, but then again, it was his bag of chips and he ate most of the rest as well. Newt checks his phone for the time. He clears his throat and draws attention to it. He's to leave with Thomas in an hour. Minho puts more money on the drawer and comes back to bed. Newt says nothing about it, just indulges in the most mundane job he'll probably ever land in this business.

~~

“Ready to go, sweetheart?” Thomas asks when Newt goes out of the room. Newt nods, and everyone except for one of the boys leaves for the elevator. Sonya whispers that Enrique got paid to stay the entire night. She looks a little tousled and slightly red-cheeked, but still a thousand bucks. He wonders if everyone can see on him that he hasn't even taken his shirt off. He feels self-conscious about it.

When they get back home, everyone stays the night at the house. Thomas takes Newt and lets one of the other boys crash in Newt's bed. Newt feels exhilarated, maybe this means Thomas will keep him around.

After closing the door around them, Thomas snaps his fingers for Newt to step forward. Obediently, Newt gets up in front of him and Thomas takes the final step so they're grazing each other. Newt's breath catches. Is Thomas going to kiss him?

He doesn't. He puts his hands on Newt's ass and slides his fingers into Newt's back pockets. Newt doesn't breathe as he does so, only looking Thomas straight in the eye. He's immensely grateful that he threw away the three packages of lube and two of the condoms in exchange for the money. The bundle that Thomas fishes out of his pocket with the last condom and holds up to inspect.

“Huh,” he says and flips through the bills as if counting them in two seconds flat. “It's more than expected for a three-hour double entendre.”

He says it not really like a question, but it's clear he's expecting an explanation. “He asked if he could kiss me,” Newt says carefully with a shrug. “I told him it cost extra.”

Thomas laughs. It's enough so for Newt to grin and Thomas steps away, throwing the money onto his bedside table. “Always knew Sung would fall into it eventually. Bet he was gentle?” He looks up as he undresses.

Without exactly lying, Newt says, “Very.”

Chuckling, Thomas disappears into the en suite and Newt sits down on the bed to untie his shoes and slide off his shirt. He lets out a breath very slowly. So he had figured right, and Minho had told him the truth. Minho didn't use Thomas' services and he had never intended to. Not that he exactly had now either, but it was clear that Newt would be going to the next runner party as well. If he was the only one who catered to Minho's likings, Thomas wouldn't miss out on the cash.

Thomas comes back in only his underwear and he looks sort of pleased. Newt forces himself not to preen since he hasn't done what Thomas is so pleased about, so he looks away and takes his socks off. The mattress dips as Thomas gets on it. Newt hears him, his breath, the unmistakable sound of a cock being jerked. Newt pushes off the bed and out of his pants, turns to face him. Thomas sprawls in the middle of the bed, naked, his heavy cock in hand, jerking himself off. As Newt stops, Thomas holds out the last of Newt's condoms between two fingers. “Suck me off,” he says. “Make it quick.”

Newt isn't slow to comply. Clad in only his underwear now, he gets down between Thomas's legs and takes over when Thomas lets himself go. He slows the motion and slips on the condom quickly.

Thomas is silent all through it, save his gasping breaths as Newt pushes him closer and closer to climax. Newt has done this enough times—to him in particular, to guys generally—to know it's a job well done when Thomas bucks into him, wheezing and twitching as he comes. The condom saves him from the taste, although latex isn't exactly better, but he feels the hotness of it through the thin layer. He takes care of the clean up without having to be asked and slips into bed, as close to him as he dares.

“Are you proud?” he asks, even though it's stupid, so stupid.

Thomas turns his eyes on him, grinning. “Sweetheart, I couldn't be prouder.”


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes in the morning before Thomas. It's his last chance to make it clear that Thomas definitely should keep him at close range rather than send him away, so he gets to work. He slides out of bed and rounds it. Knowing he'll find a bottle of lube and condoms in the bedside drawer, he tugs it carefully open. Thomas stirs on the bed and looks at him when Newt closes the drawer again.

”Going through my things, sweetie?” His voice is venomous, but his face slackens when Newt holds up his supplies. He only lies down comfortably on his back and looks on as Newt gets to work. He has Thomas hard in no time, a condom slid on and lubed up extensively. He relaxes his body while straddling his lap and slides Thomas inside of himself, inch by inch, breath staggering. Thomas gazes at him, curiously and hungry. Newt pushes up and fucks down on him, moaning quietly. Thomas helps, moves his hips in Newt's pace, hands tightly fitted over his thighs. Newt has his own hands on Thomas' chest, rolling his hips, and makes as many tiny little sounds he thinks he can get away with. Thomas' expression is one of amusement. Newt knows he's too easy, that Thomas thinks it's fun to have Newt tend to him on his own volition. Newt doesn't care. Or my accurately: he cares too much. If this goes as he hopes, it means Thomas realizes he's got an even easier fuck in Newt than he does in anyone else. In turn, it will hopefully tip the scales and Newt will keep his room.

His left leg gives up early. It's annoying, he was going to fuck the life out of him like this, but he doesn't want Thomas to notice anything. He'll have to change the plan. With his movements going more erratic, he pretends it's because it's not enough rather than because of pain. He throws his head back, whines, moans, claws at Thomas' chest.

“Tommy...”

With forced ease, the word coming out in between harsh breaths, Thomas replies, “Sweetheart?”

Newt gasps, lets his head roll forward so he can meet Thomas' gaze. “Fuck me? Want to feel you on top of me so bad, just want you to… use me, Tommy, please.”

Looking like Newt is pressing all the right buttons in his possessive streak, Thomas pushes at him. Newt pulls off and barely has time to take a breath before Thomas flips them over and presses him into the bed. He takes Newt's wrists and holds them down steady beside his head and thrusts into him vigorously. Newt's leg burns but he doesn't have to worry about it like this. He moans, bucking into it, whispers for more and more, and Thomas gives it to him.

It's hard without being violent and Newt likes it the best like that. As Thomas grabs his hair and pulls his head back, Newt arches and finds himself drawing so close to coming he's afraid he might do it before Thomas, untouched at that. It's by tensing his entire self that he manages not to. Thankfully, that draws Thomas to the edge quickly and he slams into Newt, coming gruffly. Newt works his own cock quickly, clenching and unclenching around Thomas' throbbing cock as Thomas continues to come for another few seconds. With his head forced backwards, Newt can't see his eyes but he isn't sure whether he'd see anything anyway. His orgasm pools quickly in his groin and he forgets about everything except for that. He chases his own release before it ripples through him and he shakes as he jerks stripes of cum onto his own stomach. He hears Thomas gasp above him over his own shallow breaths.

Thomas lets go of his head, and it hurts to bend it back to normal. He cranes it to the side to work out the kinks, but keeps the gaze Thomas has on him as he pulls out but stays on top of him. “Unexpected wake-up call,” Thomas says conversationally.

Newt laughs, airly, short. “But good?” he asks.

Thomas' mouth widens. “You are always my good boy, Newtie.”

Newt feels his entire self flame up and he shudders at the words, his vision blackens, and the press of Thomas still against him is suddenly quite the opposite to pleasurable. He can't breathe. “Please don't”—he manages just barely to press out the words—“call me that.”

Thomas, having obviously seen the reaction, gives no sympathy, only quiet curiosity. “Newtie?” he asks.

Newt shakes his head. Use his name however he likes; Newt doesn't care. He forces himself to breathe, relax. It's just Thomas, it's cool. The words are like a thin thread ready to snap when he whispers into the pressing silence, “'My boy.' Please don't call me your boy.”

Thomas leans down, ghosts his lips over Newt's cheekbone. Newt lies still, oh, so still. With only a breath, Thomas asks, “Isn't that what you are?”

Newt closes his eyes and swallows. “I'm yours, Tommy.”

Thomas seems to chuckle, but there's no sound. Only the slight vibration of his body against Newt's. “You're mine, huh? But not—”

Newt can't bear hearing him say it again, so he interrupts. “Please _,_ Tommy. Please.”

Without answering, Thomas pulls his face away, then his hands, then his body. Newt remains, heart thumping crazily in his chest and his eyes closed. He hears Thomas' footsteps and then when they stop. He licks his lips and opens his eyes, alone, covered in his own cum, the shape of Thomas' lips an impression on his cheek just by his ear. He looks to the ceiling. He wills his body to sit. Then to stand. Then to leave. He occupies the bathroom down the hall for too long but doesn't dare to leave before he has gotten his panic attack out of the way and his bearings with him.

It must be a weakness, Newt thinks, to have triggering words. If a client wants to use them, he can't say no. So he knows Thomas _will_ use them again. Under no circumstances will he just let go of such an easy expression. He has invested a lot in Newt, so he can't break because some older man wants to roleplay that he's fucking his own son. Newt doesn't know if it would have been easier to have this happen earlier. Now, it's so late in the game because now Thomas knows almost every in and out of him, and knows how to _shape_ his weaknesses. The only reason, Newt supposes, that he let it be today and didn't push it to the breaking point, was because the encounter was on Newt's initiative. Next time, it will be on Thomas', and Newt is going to come out of it Thomas' good boy.

~~

To Newt's absolute pleasure, he gets to stay at the house. Thomas doesn't mention anything of a collective or a move. Newt can barely contain the relief he feels over that, despite the hardcore training Thomas puts him through. It takes Thomas two full days of calling Newt “my boy” before Newt stops flinching. He says it not only when they fuck, but when they talk, when they eat, when Newt sits on his bed with his magazine, when Thomas orders him around, when Thomas praises him. It takes another day before Newt doesn't do anything drastic—as panicking or crying—when Thomas says it in bed.

It is not a surprise when he gets sent on his first private job after that. Still, it fills him with so much tension he's afraid he might combust. He's sent to a not even half as nice hotel as the runners were cooped up in, about fifteen minutes from the house, with the room number etched to his brain. 306. 306. 306.

“I'm Nick,” Newt says in lieu of a greeting, his voice carefully neutral.

The man, in his late thirties with salt and peppered scruff and deep forehead lines, looks Newt up and down. “Do I look like I give a fuck?” he asks.

He doesn't, so Newt just steps in as the man disappears. Thomas hasn't said anything about how he is as a person except that he's a regular. Newt thinks Thomas wants him to acclimatize with getting to know everything by himself. The man, Newt soon understands, is not a talker.

“Strip,” he says as he loosens his own tie. The hotel room is almost a little too brightly lit. It's sparsely furnished. The bed is unmade. Newt's money is already on a chair close to the door.

Newt strips. It's quiet, detached, but he tries to talk a few times just to have something else to focus on than the chill over his skin. Repeatedly, he gets told to shut his mouth. Newt doesn't want to get hit, so he closes his mouth and follows the man's gesturing instructions.

He steps up, completely naked, and the man still wears pants. He's fit under his shirt like he takes well care of himself. Newt wonders why men like these can't just pick up someone from a bar. The man got looks enough. Probably because of his lack of communication skills. And, Newt realizes soon, that he has some kinks not generally brought up in a hookup.

The man loops the tie around Newt's hands in front of him and fastens it, tightly. The silky material is abruptly hard and Newt lets it happen. With his hand on Newt's shoulder, the man pushes him down on the bed. Newt goes down on his back with a quiet gasp, unable to catch himself. The man is on him in an instant, his belt buckle rasping at Newt's naked thigh. It hurts.

“Hey, could you—”

“Be quiet.”

“Sir—”

“I told you to _shut the fuck up_.”

And that's all Newt needs to know. This isn't about him. This is about the power fantasy this man wants. He doesn't want someone who pretends he's not the one in charge, he doesn't want anyone who fights or talks back; he wants someone to take it. So Newt snaps his mouth closed and endures. The man ties both ends of the tie to the bed frame before pushing away to sit up. Newt tests the bonds, and they only go snugger against his wrists.

The only reason Newt isn't terrified the man is going to conveniently forget about condoms is because he's one of Thomas' regulars. He must know the rules already.

It's a rape fantasy. Newt wonders if he should make himself cry, if that would please him. He finds he doesn't want to make him like it too much. If he can opt out of any more of jobs with this man, he's going to take it. So, as the man gets his dick out—still wearing his pants like he can't even bother—Newt does the one thing he knows this dude doesn't want. He talks.

“You have to—” This time, he's slapped. He figured it would happen, braced for it. It doesn't stop him. “I can't—” Another. The man luckily rolls on the condom then, jerking a hand full of lube down it. Newt's head spins. “Please,” he says. It doesn't please the man in the slightest. He puts a hand over Newt's mouth and fucks him wordlessly, harshly, and like somehow he thinks it's funny to see Newt looking wide-eyed at him while he does.

When it's over, the man cleans off and showers before he even unties Newt. Newt doesn't complain or asks him to, just lies there and waits. When his wrists are freed, the fabric has made red marks. He massages them and knows they'll be fine before morning. The man knows not to leave anything that would last longer. Newt packs up his clothes and takes them to the bathroom and cleans up and dresses quickly. He would've left immediately if it would have been possible.

He doesn't look at the man when he goes. Just picks up his money and opens the door.

“Tell Stephenson you're too talkative for my liking. Get me someone better next time.”

Newt only nods.

~~

Newt crosses paths with Thomas in the upstairs hallway. Newt gives him his cut of the money, silently, then passes the message about his insufficiency. He doesn't meet Thomas' gaze until Thomas puts two fingers to his chin and turns his head up. The look he gives him is curious. Newt forces himself not to yawn in his face. The job has left him emotionally exhausted and he wants to sleep, wants to forget about the entire night.

“Sweetheart?”

Newt clears his throat. “Yeah?” He can't even make himself smile. Thomas must understand that nothing happened with Minho. Even if Thomas suspected Minho to have been gentle and he must know that the man Newt was with today is nothing like that, the difference in reaction now versus non-reaction last time must tick him.

Thomas lets him go and pets his cheek. “Get some rest.”

Newt stands watching the closed door for a long time after Thomas has disappeared behind it. Newt feels hollow, but Thomas lack of opinion on the matter knocks surprise into him. He swallows. Tells himself that he's fine. That he's unaffected. All that happened tonight happened to “Nick.” If he tells himself that's the truth, maybe tomorrow he can get up and do it all over again.

~~

And he does. Over and over, Nick goes to work with client after client, and Newt comes home to hold the pieces of him together. Nick learns how to play into the whole fantasy ideas, to extract from clients what they want with simple means and tricks, and then he supplies it. Only one man buys him and doesn't fuck him, an old gentleman that brings him as a date to a gala. It's nice. Newt hates him because he makes Newt feel good just by treating him somewhat like a person. It's easier to detach when it's all crude words and something to endure until it's over.

There's a large variety of men. A couple of them are too harsh and they leave Newt crying on his bedroom floor when he comes home, dry-heaving at the thought of their faces. Only one of them is wild enough to leave a mark. A sickly bite mark at the base of his throat which hurt worse than anything Thomas ever has put him through. It's not a surprise that Thomas is mad that he got one, but it is surprising that he doesn't blame Newt. Newt sits on Thomas' bed, his arms hugging his legs as Thomas curses the man out over the phone and changes his number to something along the lines of “Mark 32” to indicate his offense, as well as the number in order of men who before him have done the same. The supply Thomas offers is completely shut off from the Mark 32, and Newt hyperventilates over how relieved he is to never have to fuck that guy again.

“There, now,” Thomas says, hand in his hair. “I'll take you off the market.”

And he means it. Newt doesn't work until the mark is completely gone because Thomas doesn't let him. He sleeps in bed with Thomas and Thomas sleeps with him. To be back in Thomas' bed full time comes as a well-needed break. Most of the time, Newt likes it enough to come, too.

Then, his skin clears and he's back at it again.

~~

Minho grabs him the second the escorts enter the same hotel room as last time they worked for the runners. Last time, Minho had been cooped up in his room and not come out for almost an hour but this time, he's right there in the midst of the others. He detaches himself from them and heads for Newt wordlessly and takes his hand. Runners and escorts alike whistle. Sonya winks at Newt as they pass. Minho drags him into the same bedroom. At first, Newt thinks everything is the same. It takes a second, two, before he realizes that first and foremost, he himself is not the same. He's harder now, more calculating, more empty.

“Hiya, Isaac.”

But still as prone to surprise in Minho's presence. Newt had forgotten about “Isaac.” He's solely been Nick for such an intense period of time now that whoever he was with Minho feels like a memory long gone. They stand in the exact same way as last time: Minho at the foot of the bed, the door at his back, blocking it, and Newt a couple of paces in front of him.

“Uhm, hi?” He doesn't know how to emotionally disconnect from Isaac, that's why he chose to change it for his first actual job. Isaac is all wrong and he wonders how he's going to be able to get fucked as him.

“Thought we could do a repeat,” says Minho. When Minho smiles, Newt realizes that Minho didn't fuck him last time.

Newt, who feels sick to his stomach at the thought of having to take his clothes off, still says, “It's rather rude not to let me work.”

Minho holds his gaze. “I thought the point of escorts is that they're paid-for company.”

It's not a question, and he's right. Just that Thomas' escorts are very rarely sent to those kinds of jobs. He shouldn't push it, Minho is going to pay him good anyway. “Not even a handy?”

Minho shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Fine.” Without finesse, Newt asks, “What _do_ you want, then?”

Minho indicates the bed. “How about some cards?” And the second thing changed in the setting is not anything with Newt, but with Minho. Because Minho has planned for two tonight. Like a tiny slumber party, he has snacks and drinks and an actual deck of cards.

“Just take your shoes off before getting into bed.” Minho waves at him and launches himself into the covers, disturbing everything in it without care.

It's easy money, Newt thinks. He should be glad that he gets another break. But he can't shake the false sense of security Minho invokes. This is an exception, not the norm. Not that one night of this overweighs all other nights of relentless fucking, but Newt does find it easier to fall into the rhythm of things that are pleasant than the other way around. There's nothing else to do. He doesn't want to go without the money and he doesn't think any of the others will pay the same rate, definitely not for all four hours Minho is sure to give him. It's economically strategic just to do as he wants.

Newt toes out of his shoes. “What are we playing?”

“Shithead.”

Newt stops and snaps his head towards him. “Excuse me?”

Minho, bubbling with laughter, pats the bed in front of him. “The card game?” he says, and at Newt's confused expression, “You never heard of ‘Shithead’?”

Newt sits cross-legged in front of him, close enough to reach cards when Minho deals, but not close enough that they can touch. He lets Minho explain the rules. Newt follows the basics. Nine cards per person: three upside down facing wild cards, three upside facing cards on top which you can't touch before you have gotten rid if your three handheld cards. The one with the lowest ranking cards starts, you have to put a card of higher value or the same, and always have three cards on hand until the pile is empty. It's easy enough, but getting lost while Minho goes into specifics. Everything from trump cards to mirror cards to cards you can't end the game on and cards you can put together to create another card and somehow, you can also change your upward facing cards even though you're technically not allowed to use them. Newt sits, staring at his cards and not knowing whether or not he can put a six on top of a four, because a rule might make it so that particular combo isn't allowed.

At the end of the third game, Newt has gotten a slight hang of it. Minho has won every round, but all in good fun. Minho is too smug about it, though, and Newt pretends to pout. Minho wipes it away by offering chips and a drink (and even offers either with or without alcohol; they both choose cider with percentage.)

“I'll get you next round,” Newt says and decides to take up other measures as Minho deals again. This time, Newt also plays a game of distraction. “You know,” he says, staring at his cards, “my real name isn't actually Isaac.” He looks up under lashes and Minho glances at him.

“I figured.”

In turn, Newt has figured that Minho counts cards. He's going to make Minho have too much else to think about. “My best friend used to call me Isaac. It's the only other name I had ever had, so I just said it.” There's no use in lying, then he has to put too much brain capacity on the task. He places a seven on the pile.

Like a true gentleman, Minho instead of asking Newt's real name, just asks, “What was your best friend called?” Three eights.

Newt puts down two nines. “Lizzie. We grew up as neighbors. She was more like a sister to me than a friend.”

“Past tense?” Minho keeps his gaze.

Newt nods but doesn't elaborate. Instead, “Are you impotent?” The question makes Minho laugh. Newt shakes his head irritably. “What? You're paying a lot for the company of a whore and you wanna play cards, it's not an unrealistic jump of conclusion.”

Minho makes Newt pick up some cards, shaking with laughter. “I do not suffer from erectile dysfunction.”

Newt grins. “If you say so.”

The strategy works surprisingly well, and Newt only has his wild cards left when Minho wins a fourth time. Newt, getting into it now, boldly says, “Let's raise the stakes.”

Minho raises an eyebrow and shuffles the deck. “Mhm?”

“The Shithed of next round has to answer any question the winner wants to ask.”

They reach over the bed and shake on it. Newt finds he wouldn't mind holding hands. He doesn't remember the last time he did that with anyone. It's a stupid idea so he dismisses it quickly.

Despite Newt's growing ability to play the game, he loses their fifth consecutive match. He holds a hand out to Minho, the question is all his. Minho takes his time thinking about it, shuffling skillfully without even looking at his hands. Newt finds it fascinating and watches the cards mix between his fingers.

“Have you slept with many guys?”

Newt lifts his eyes, trails them slowly up Minho's body. He's dressed similarly as last time, dark sweats and henley, hair nicely done. His eyes are so dark they're black. Without the money and the job, Newt would _want_ to fuck him. He cocks his head. “I was a self-proclaimed slut my last year of high school, and I've been fucking for a living since then so… Yeah.” He shrugs a little. He would've answered that without the game.

“So, you've had this job for over a year?”

Newt doesn't know what to say. Minho knows how old he is, and he's just said he's worked since he graduated, which _should have been_ last year. He says, flatly, “I had to do Senior year twice. Or well, I didn't do much of it the first time around.”

“Why not?”

“I think you're out of questions. Play me for another.”

Minho seems to hear the edge to his voice and deals another hand without protest. To both of their surprise and Newt's utter delight, Newt wins. Minho sits with a whole bunch of cards and Newt calls him a shithead as he puts down his last, a smirk splitting his face.

Minho holds his hands out and waves for him to “bring it”, eyes closed. “Give it your best shot, Isaac.”

Newt bites his lower lip and adjusts slightly on the bed. “Why don't you buy prostitutes? Your friends all seem keen on using Thomas' service.”

Minho looks a bit taken aback. Newt wonders what he thought he was going to be asked. With his hand scratching his scalp, Minho says, “I can't buy a connection with someone. And I want more than sex when I have it.”

“You don't fuck unless you're in love then?”

Minho shrugs. “Yeah, I do, but not with… I guess I want to feel like there's something more.”

“So, why are you buying my time?”

Minho smiles tenderly. “I think you're out of questions. Play me for another.”

Newt can feel the corner of his mouth tick up even if he wills it not to. He can't know for certain, but he's fairly sure the answer is one of two options. One: Minho buys his time because he wants to fuck Newt in the future. That option, however, is more unlikely. Which leaves two: He wants to save Newt from this life. As if Newt hasn't chosen this life over whatever scrap he had before. Either way, it's slightly pathetic. Let him have it if it makes him happy, Newt thinks. It's not Newt’s fault the man is stupid. Newt pretends that he doesn't like it.

He says, “How about a dare this time?”

Minho stops mid-deal. “A dare?”

“If I win,” Newt says and twirls some hair around his finger, “you have to kiss me.” He can't remember the last time he kissed someone because he wanted to. Clients kiss him sometimes, but it's just Thomas Newt has been interested in kissing. Thomas, on the other hand, isn't interested in that at all.

Minho blinks at him. To Newt's delight, he looks torn about it, which means he wants to because he's attracted to him, but also not because he would technically be paying for it. He thinks about it for a long time before he makes up his mind. “If I win,” he accepts, “then you...” He leans over the bed and brings up a black backpack from the floor and he rummages through it. Finally, he gets what he's looking for and holds up a bag of brown, chocolate-looking candies. “...have to eat a few of these beetle snacks.”

Newt stares at him. “What.” Minho shakes the bag before throwing it over. Newt only catches it on reflex and looks down at it. There more he looks at it, the more unreal it seems because it _is_ really made of insects and chocolate. He offered Minho to kiss him and Minho countered with literal bugs. Newt wonders if he thinks Newt's ugly looking. “Why,” he asks as leveled as he can, “do you even have these?”

Minho grins. “My dad sells them in his store. I was going to trick Gally into eating them. You game?”

Newt knows his chances of winning are bad, but he nods. Minho finishes the deal and they play.

Newt loses. He eats exactly one bug candy and drowns it in an entire bottle of coke. Minho rolls around laughing on the bed and Newt hates him. Hates him to another universe and back. Then Minho eats a bug, too, and almost throws up, and Newt joins him in laughter. He must admit, he kinda likes being Isaac. He and Minho have a pretty sweet _connection_.

~~

The weekend after, Thomas sends him to Gally. Newt has a twenty-minute car ride to ponder it, but it isn't until he knocks on the room door and Gally opens that Newt understands it's really him. Despite the slight shock, he treats it like any other job, giving Gally a slow once over. “Hiya, stranger.”

Gally's smirk is wide and he opens the door wider. “Isaac,” he says, amusement in his voice.

Newt hadn't expected him to know his chosen name. He would've rather liked to use Nick, but he doesn't want to annoy him first thing. He'll have to live with it, and hope Gally doesn't call him that too many times.

He's invited in. Gally leads the way through a short corridor to the one bedroom. He's nicely dressed, in a pressed shirt and suit pants, his tie and dress shoes are thrown onto the floor as if he's come from an event. Probably has. Newt has seen the inside of too many hotel and motel rooms already, from pretty shitty to the expensive shit the runner usually rent. The one they're in now isn't as fancy, but it definitely could have been worse. Unlike most of his clients, Gally doesn't just get down to it. He even offers Newt a drink. Newt, who thinks it's a nice change of pace, accepts. It turns out to be a scotch, which he really doesn't like, but he politely drinks it.

“Must say, I'm a little surprised I'm here,” Newt admits.

With a casual leaning-back posture, Gally gets down on the edge of the bed, and Newt joins him. “Really?” he asks and his gaze moves down to the fingers Newt casually drags over his forearm. “I'm a little surprised at your boldness. Didn't see a lot of that last time we talked.”

There have been a lot of men and practice since then. “Did you like me better shy?” Newt angles down his head slightly indicating how he easily can slip into that.

Gally narrows his eyes, not as if aggravated, but as if he's trying to determine what to say. Newt lets his fingers brush up over Gally's bicep, appreciating the hard muscle. “I want you to show me what you do to Sung that has him pissin' the ground you walk.”

Newt doesn't let his expression change. That means Gally doesn't know that he and Minho don't have sex. Maybe none of the runners know, then. He doesn't know if that's good or bad but he has obviously let them think that Newt is _special._ He forces himself not to even clear his throat before he answers, just drags his hand down Gally's arm again. As plainly and sweetly as he can, he says, “Can't do that, I'm afraid.”

“Why?” Not angry.

Newt breathes out non-visibly. “We have an arrangement.”

“What sort of 'arrangement'?”

Newt bites his lip and measures his words. “He tells me what he wants, and I indulge him.”

Gally thinks it over for a second, his own hand finding its way up Newt's thigh. “So, if I tell you what I want, you'll indulge me?”

Newt nods. “It's rather impossible to give you the same as him, especially since I'm pretty sure you don't enjoy the same things.”

“What makes you say that?”

 _You want sex._ “I'm very good at what I do.” Newt drags his hand up Gally's thigh, too, and for a moment, they just sit there, hands on thighs, looking at each other.

Gally asks, “Same rules as the others?”

“Always condoms, never marks,” Newt recites the words Thomas has drilled into him.

“And the fee?”

Newt doesn't know how much Gally usually pays but he's sure Gally won't try to scam him. The runners want Thomas' favors again. “Your usual,” he responds.

“And what about you?”

Newt cocks his head. “What about me?”

Gally snorts. “You wanna come or not?”

That wasn't a question he had prepared for, one he has never gotten before. “Uh…” He feels himself _blush_ and quickly shakes his shoulders to sober up.

“Did I take you by surprise there?”

Newt lets his hand travel upwards, lightly going over Gally's crotch so his attention divides. “You can do whatever you want with me,” he says, making his voice low and promising. “If you want me to come, I'll come for you.”

It seems to be what Gally wants because Newt can feel the words impact under his fingers. It's interesting to be with someone like that, someone who wants pleasure all around. It's not a mystery anymore why the runners are highly liked clients if this is what you get with all of them.

“I like it rough,” Gally says, a warning or maybe a question.

Newt skillfully touches him through the clothes, mouth close to his ear. “Whatever you want, you can have.”

Gally's hands come to open up to undo buttons and it takes Newt a second to realize it's the buttons of Newt's shirt that he starts with. He lets Gally undress him and Gally gets even more frenzy when Newt moves to open his shirt, too. His fingers glide over Newt's chest smoothly, feeling him underneath the shirt before he pulls it off. Newt mirrors the gesture and Gally's dark eyes look hungry for more as Newt touches the planes of his chest.

The fact that Gally is only a few years older and the tug and pull they have going on, Newt almost feels like it's a hook-up rather than work. Gally touches him to make him feel good, not only because he wants to touch him. He said he wanted to see what the fuzz is with Minho and Newt, but it feels more about Newt and Gally once the pants are dropped. Newt finds that it's good because Isaac and Minho are something way different than this.

The sex is fine. Gally treats him roughly but unlike anyone else who has fucked Newt, he does so respectfully. He makes sure his actions aren't unpleasurable or too hard, and he really does want Newt to come for him. Newt knows this isn't Gally knowing that Thomas easily could take them out of the loop if he treats one of Thomas' boys badly, but really about how Gally wants it. It's… odd. Newt kind of wishes Gally to find himself a boyfriend instead; he's completely wasted on fucking escorts like this.

He makes Newt come with yeses on his lips, and they lay panting next to each other for a while afterwards. It's not super rare, but it's been a while since he came with anyone but Thomas. Most of the time, he doesn't even get hard enough to do so, and most clients find it better to just come themselves. Newt's limbs feel heavy but he turns and stumbles off the bed to clean up.

“Nice ass,” Gally says, grinning. Newt gives himself a light slap and goes into the bathroom. The fluorescent lights are harsh and blue and it makes his body look glowing white. He looks himself in the mirror and doesn't hate the person looking back. Isaac got to be different today, too, even if he slept with someone. He washes his face and abdomen with towels and water from the sink. A shower would be nice, but he'll hold out until he gets home.

Gally counts bills as Newt reenters. He has pulled his underwear back on but nothing else. He hunches over his money, looking rather goblin-like, but Newt still finds him more attractive than he had thought with a face like that. There's something about him.

“So, this what got Minho hooked, huh?” he says, not looking up.

Newt picks up his clothes and gets dressed sitting on the bed. “I guess.”

Gally looks over his shoulder at him. “I'd say I would do it again next time we got a party but I'm pretty sure Minho would lynch me.”

“If you pay better than him, I can switch sides.”

Thankfully, Gally takes it as a joke. “Yeah, right. Minho's pretty possessive.”

“Will you tell him about this?”

“Will you?”

Newt shrugs. “I will tell him the truth if he asks.”

Gally scratches his chin. “I should tell him first, then.”

“You _want_ to tell him, asshole.”

Gally laughs. “Yeah, you're right.” He looks at Newt and holds the money out. “You were different.”

“Different?” Newt pockets the money.

Gally nods slowly. “Than I thought. I see why he likes you.”


	4. Chapter 4

Knowing that there are a few less awful people in the world doesn't make it easier to work. It does, however, make it easier for Newt to hold out when things are difficult. He tells himself he just has to get through it until next time he'll get a break. Until the next runner party, just hang in there. Thomas doesn't make him work every single night, which Newt finds good and bad. Sometimes, he goes out of his mind spending the entire day in the house, and sometimes he wants to ram his head through a glass table because he gets six clients in four days. It's ever-changing despite the regulars he has picked up. Only one of them he cannot stand and wants to get rid of, but he pays too good to even approach Thomas about it. And if he loses the client on his own accords, Thomas will not be happy about it either.

It's on a workless night as he roams the house, looking for entertainment. Or rather, Thomas, to see if he's allowed to use any of the entertainments. The level of boredom is so high he would even consider some heavily kinky sex in the dungeon. It's a place Thomas has only taken him a few times, and they've never exactly used it. They have used a few of the things, but Thomas has always taken him up to his room. Newt's not even sure if Thomas ever uses the room. Newt thinks it's more of a showroom, someplace he can take people to show them how much of a sex god he is. Either way, he needs Thomas' permission to use whatever he can find to make time pass.

The deal he walks in on seems to be serious enough for him to excuse himself from. Thomas and another man Thomas' age sits in the sitting room, whiskey glasses twirling in their hands, foreheads furrowed deep. The newcomer has a lot of tattoos. What little skin of him is visible is inked up pretty extensively, his hands, his wrists, his neck, even his face is splattered with black lines. Not his entire face, but enough so to make gang-related connection highly likely. Newt doesn't want to piss off someone like that, so he holds hand up as he takes a step back.

“Sorry,” he says, “I didn't know you were—”

Thomas interrupts, waving him over. “Don't strain yourself. Come here.”

The new guy gives Newt the slightest glance, only because Thomas stopped talking to him. As Newt carefully steps in again, his eyes go back to Thomas, and stay there. Thomas adjusts on the couch, making himself opening up for Newt to join him. In his lap. His hand is outstretched, and his knees wide apart. Newt will fit. But he's not used to physical contact in the presence of others. To sit in Thomas' lap like a star crossed lover feels strange in itself, but with company, even further so.

When the new guy opens his mouth, it's not English that comes out. Newt hadn't heard them enough to notice, but as the man speaks, Newt stares at him. Before he realizes that the man speaks…. Polish? Yeah, probably Polish, then Thomas… He snaps his gaze to him, but he only sits, awaiting Newt's arrival and holding his concentration on the new guy. Newt silently slips into his lap. As he does, Thomas interrupts the man and answers in Polish too.

Newt wraps his arms around Thomas' neck and Thomas' arm snakes around Newt's waist. Newt can feel the heat of him through his clothes. Surprisingly, it's rather comfortable to sit pressed up against him, feet dangling over the side of his thighs. Newt leans his cheek against Thomas' shoulder and watches the other man, almost in secret. Thomas pets him and adjusts a little so Newt fits tightly in the space Thomas has created for him. The other man pays Newt as much attention as someone would a pet of the variety they care nothing for. He's white, black hair cropped short, and Newt wonders just how often he wears a suit and tie like that. He looks more like baggy jeans and hoodies are his things.

Since Newt definitely can't speak Polish, he can't follow the conversation that follows. Instead, he makes sure to be as useful as possible. If Thomas brought him in despite the company, it's because he wants to show this guy how well his merchandise can behave. So, Newt is quiet and pliable. He drags his lips up Thomas' throat without disturbing him too much, and he can smell and taste the sting cologne on his skin. The hand at Newt's back fists into the fabric harshly, but that's the only indication Thomas feels anything at all. His voice holds steady, even as the argument heats up.

The conversation switches to English as abruptly as it had started in Polish, so Newt first doesn't notice. It's when the first mention of “cocaine” is uttered that Newt stills and realizes it's a word closely related to the Polish equivalent. He had thought it a coincidence there was a Polish word that sounded like the drug, but when he hears it again, in a second language, there's no doubt this _entire conversation_ has been about drugs. Not about escorts, not about boys, not about anything closely resembling Thomas' usual things.

Newt hears quickly that the conversation switched language because Thomas got irritated and didn't want the new guy to have the lingual upper hand. Thomas hadn't seemed particularly bad at Polish, but the new guy's English comes out broken. Broken, but unfazed to speak it.

“We need those territories, or else we're deep in the shit. Casa Muerte will hang our guys if we don't strike back.”

Thomas cocks his head at this. Newt, with his lips now lightly pressed to Thomas jugular, unmoving, can feel his throat moving as he answers. “If you want to start a gang war, Krajewski, the answer is _no_. Retaliate, sure, be my guest, but Muerte isn't going anywhere near us. You know it, I know it, I'm sure the bodega owner on the corner knows it. We're not negotiating this. You make the coke fly on those corners, and Casa Muerte can suck my cock if they want in on them.”

Krajewski argues further with this, but Thomas relentlessly shuts him down. Newt can't do anything but force himself to breathe, realization dawning on him slowly and unmercifully. Thomas isn't a pimp. Or rather, he's not _just_ a pimp.

After another couple minutes, Krajewski quiets down. He doesn't look happy about it. He downs the last of his drink and rises to his feet. Thomas doesn't bother to get up, not even when they shake hands. Newt fists his hand in Thomas' collar as Krajewski looks down at him.

“Pretty boy,” he says to Thomas and for some reason, Thomas laughs. Krajewski leaves grinning. Newt's heart pounds in his chest so loud Thomas can surely hear it, and if by some miracle he can't, all he needs is a glance at the pulse point on Newt's neck to figure it out.

It takes him a second to collect himself enough to answer Thomas' “Sweetmeat?” with anything proper. The way his lungs and tongue and throat and breath works seems to be slightly out of order.

Finally, he responds, voice shaky. “Yeah, Tommy?”

“You didn't think I was making all my money on you, huh?” He means the escorts, Newt knows it before Thomas continues. “Two dozen pretty boys and beautiful girls don’t rein all this money.” He waves around to indicate the house, the art, the furniture, the cars, the lot, the everything. Of course, he's right. Newt has known for a while that the number of escorts is limited. He has met all of them. There haven't been any new ones since he arrived. Newt should have known, should have figured out, that Thomas' hand dealt other cards. But he hadn't. He hadn't seen drugs coming, and now here they were, straight in his face.

Newt swallows. “You've never… You know, had any.” He doesn't want to say that it would have been easy to foster any one of them into a heavy coke addiction to keep them on his side, so he lets the statement end like that.

He doesn't have to elaborate. Thomas' hand drags over his back, making him shudder. “I try not to mix business with pleasure. You're a…” He sucks on the word before smiling at Newt. “...hobby.”

He runs a sex business on the side of his normal day job—which is being a drug lord—simply for the fun of it. Newt thinks he's going to laugh because it's all too much, but he manages to contain himself. Thomas controls lives and he sees them as an extension to this house. It's his playground.

“Any further questions?”

Newt debates himself before asking, very quietly, “Who was that guy?”

Thomas doesn't even seem bothered. “One of my lieutenants. My eyes and ears on the street. I can't be out there myself, you understand.”

“Yeah, I understand.”

Thomas leans away to look down at him. “He's got a good eye for pretty people.”

Knowing it's a bad idea to respond, Newt bites his lips. But Thomas looks at him like the conversation isn't over so he forces out a, “Mhm?”

Thomas grins. “Yeah, _I_ myself wouldn't have picked _you_ out of a line up to clean up to _this_.” He nods at Newt, an appreciative gesture, like praise.

Newt stomach reels and he wants to throw up.

~~

If he never meets Krajewski again, it'll be one time too many. Therefore, he makes sure to get a good look at whoever Thomas is with before making his presence known. It's not hard to stay out of his way, but he also feels trapped if he spends his days in his room. He works and brings in his money, pretending he doesn't know whatever else brings in the funds for his room, his food, his clothes. It's hard. Drugs aren't his thing. They destroy lives and families and he wants nothing to do with them. But it's not like Thomas will give up a drug business to keep Newt, and Newt will stay anyway. He's got some money saved up, but not enough. He doesn't know how he would be able to leave Thomas either.

Voices from downstairs drag him away from his magazine. It's evening. It's probably a client. Thomas doesn't like when they show up at his house unannounced, but there are a few he invites. Newt figures since he hasn't worked for two days, that he will be the lucky one working tonight. He hasn't seen any of the others around all day. He's dressed already, so he only has to stock up on condoms and lube packages from his drawer and pocket his phone before he heads downstairs.

Newt freezes in the middle of the stairs. The rat man at the door is familiar. His battered Canada Goose and the stain on his shoes still there. Then, grey eyes turns to him, on him, he sees him standing there, and Newt can't physically make himself look away.

Thomas must notice he doesn't have the full attention anymore and he turns a glance over his shoulder. “Ah, I see you've got eyes for my latest recruit.”

“Newt,” Ratman says and Newt can't breathe anymore. He's locked in place, mentally, physically, wholeheartedly. He can see, despite the tunnel his vision has created, that Thomas looks between them. Maybe he's trying to figure out if he has already sold Newt to this guy before, or why he uses Newt's real name when Newt only ever uses “Nick” nowadays. Maybe he's trying to figure out why Newt looks like a statue all of a sudden, or why the man looks shocked. It doesn't matter what he's doing, because every second that passes is one too many.

To Newt's surprise and astonishment, Thomas continues, “And I know he's your type, but he's currently unavailable. He's also way out of your price range.” It is only because his gaze is released—Ratman looks at Thomas—that Newt can snap his eyes on the back of Thomas' head. This is a common occurrence? Ratman has been here before? He's a regular? Newt slams a hand down on the railing not to topple over.

“Hey, now, don't be disrespectful of my finances, Stephenson. I always pay.” Hearing his voice is like a strike to the stomach with a sledgehammer. Newt can't hold himself upright. “I can pay for him, name your price.”

“He's not for sale at the moment.”

Newt's knees give in. All that stands between them is Thomas, and with enough persuasion, enough money, Thomas will surely relent and sell Newt despite the unexpected reluctance to do so. Newt falls down on the stairs, scrambling to get his bearings, and listens despite all he wants to do is pour acid in his ears.

“I want him. I've got cash.”

“Janson, I've already said you don't. Don't embarrass yourself.” Thomas' voice is neutral, with undertones of pity and he turns him down before the next argument is even fully out. Ratman steps in, desperate.

“Hey, hey, Thomas, just gimme an hour with him.” His eyes are too large, his teeth too big, his body practically shaking as he stands all up in Thomas' business. “An hour. Just one hour with _my boy_ , huh?”

Newt sobs. He chokes on a dry heave and presses his eyelids together. His mind spins a mile a minute. Was this why he could hold out until Newt was eighteen? Because he got his way with hookers? Is that were all the savings and money went? As the scraped by on nothing? It's insane to think it, insane to see proof standing right in front of him.

Newt hears the punch and it makes him open his eyes. When he sees Thomas standing and Ratman staggering, he doesn't compute. Surely, Thomas understands that this is the man Newt thinks of whenever those two words are uttered, but is that enough to punch him in the face? Did he do it for Newt? Ratman tries to say something but Thomas threatens another punch and he cowards towards the door. With an impressive towering, Thomas throws open the door and pushes Ratman out. The words he says disappears with Ratman and Newt relaxes enough that his panic takes over. He doesn't remember Thomas leaving, just vaguely that he comes back. He doesn't remember the door closing, or Thomas approaching, or Thomas saying his name. The world is black and purple and his hands.

Everything stops when Thomas' hand clamps down on his shoulder. He looks up, finds brown eyes instead of grey. “I'm sorry,” Newt whispers. “I'm sorry, I didn't—”

Thomas hushes him and pulls him up from the steps. “C'mon, up we go. Don't worry, sweetums, I've got you.”

They walk up the stairs and to Thomas' room, and Newt goes through the motions without feeling his body. He's a shell. He can't believe Ratman was there, that Newt didn't have to go with him, and that Thomas defended him. Newt can hear Thomas' voice but not the words. They sit down on the bed and Thomas takes his hand.

“Sweetie, look at me, will you?” The words Newt looks up at him on command, barely registers that he does. Thomas takes his chin in hand. “You're okay here. You don't have to worry. He's not coming back.”

“He—”

“Yeah, I know, sweetheart. But you're okay, you're with me, it's all good. You're with me, okay?”

“Okay, Tommy.”

“I'm going to take care of you, alright? You'll be fine, don't you worry, okay?”

Newt just nods along as Thomas undresses him, shirt, shoes, socks. “Okay, Tommy. Thank you.”

Thomas coddles and cooees him, sweeping sweet words over Newt's skin, and after the words stop, his hands. Thomas touches him easily, caresses him with a soft care and Newt falls into it, likes it, feels safe by it. Thomas always takes care of him. Thomas' skin against his skin is warm and the weight of him is comfortable on top of him. Newt says his name and Thomas hushes him again, lips on Newt's throat, their fingers weaved together. Newt holds onto him, nuzzles his face into the crook of Thomas' shoulder as Thomas rocks them together. His cock is hard but he's gentle. The feel of him is normal, feels good, just Thomas and no one else. Thomas whispers against his lips that he's good, that he's safe, that he will take care of Newt. Newt knows he will. He has never done anything but take care of him. Newt holds onto him tightly, letting Thomas into him, lets him find pleasure in Newt's body. That's the least he can do. He doesn't have much else to offer. And Thomas wants him, so Newt gives himself freely. He's okay, everything's okay. Thomas says it is, therefore it must be true. Thomas slides into him quicker. Newt whines. Thomas hushes him again. _Everything is fine._

Because Thomas always takes care of him.

~~

He wakes with a headache. When he tries to move, Thomas has an arm wrapped around his middle and presses up against his back. Newt throws a glance over his shoulder, Thomas is still sleeping. Not wanting to disturb him, Newt settles and breathes out.

The hour he has before Thomas wakes, Newt fills with heaps of anxiety and bad feelings. The thought of Ratman at the house tickles his gag reflex and he almost throws up on the spot. It's unbelievable to think that Thomas just… punched him. That he didn't sell Newt when Ratman obviously would have paid.

But the ulterior motive for his actions rings clearer to Newt than they ever have before. With his head not caught up in panic, it's easier to see. Thomas didn't do it out of the goodness of his heart and he sure as hell didn't do it for Newt. Thomas did it for himself. He must have known Newt was a mess. For most of the night, Newt was near to unresponsive and Thomas had just fucked him anyway.

Despite every revelation about Ratman and Newt's previous life from last night, the realization that hits him the hardest is the one about Thomas. Thomas, who sees himself a provider and protector, had taken Newt's broken pieces yesterday and instead of trying to mend him back together, had tried to rearrange the pieces to fit Thomas' own narrative better. He'd used Newt's mental state to his own game, playing Newt like he was something to tear down with promises and empty words. He is possessive, that was why he didn't let Ratman have him. He knew it would make Newt trust him if he forced Ratman to leave. He worked everything for his own agenda. When Newt realizes it in the early morning, trapped in Thomas' arms, he knows Thomas is grooming him. Knows that Thomas only does what he does so that Newt will be dependent on him. He knows, he knows, but he doesn't hate Thomas for it. He isn't even scared. He's just… tired. If Thomas wants him, he can have him. It'll always be better than going back home, and whatever other option does he have? As long as Thomas lets him work and refrains from keeping him as his personal pet, Newt will be fine.

~~

He feels almost lucky when Thomas allows him out to work a couple of days later. It's a client he knows, someone who Newt only has to let do his thing. The money is easy. The emotional toll he suffers is not. He's not okay, but fucking doesn't take a vacation.

Unexpectedly but very welcome, the runners send word of a party the same weekend. Knowing Minho will only buy Newt, Thomas must let him go.

Newt wears blue. A dress shirt that isn't as tight as it could possibly be and dark skinny jeans. He stands with the condoms and lube in his hand, staring at it for a long time before pushing the packages into his pocket. Better safe than sorry, he reasons.

Thomas and the others wait for him down in the hall and they head off together. There are a few large groups that buy a bunch of them at the same time, and Thomas goes with them on a few of those. Newt has realized that he goes to talk business and keeps up his contacts in famous and high places. He socializes with the elite as the escorts do their thing. Newt has to clench his teeth not to say or do anything stupid.

He sits next to Sonya and she asks what's up. Newt throws a glance at Thomas being peppered by the cabbie and estimates how much he can hear. With his voice low and eyes still on him, Newt asks, “Do you know about the drugs?”

Sonya's smile stiffens. “Yeah,” she says bitterly. “I know. Enrique figured it out a while ago, told the rest of us.”

Newt nods and looks down at her hands twisting in her lap. Newt feels his detachment from the rest of them very acutely. “Anyone doing any?”

She gives him an odd look. “He would never allow it.”

She's right, of course. Thomas does not mix business with pleasure. Good that. Newt nods. “I should live with you.”

“You should.”

“I didn't realize…”

“It's difficult to see when you're in something.”

“I don't know how.”

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I don't either.”

“Do people leave?”

She barely breathes when he asks, her eyes going to Thomas. “Everyone could, technically. Nobody has tried.”

He doesn't want to ask what she means. He wants to ask for how long she has been forced into this labor. He wants to help her. He wants her to help him. They don't say anything else but Sonya squeezes his knee quickly.

Minho is mixed with the runners this time too. Newt takes matters into his own hands and stalks up to him as soon as they're inside the door. Minho rises from a couch when he approaches and Newt takes his hand, already heading for Minho's designated room. He really doesn't care if Minho won't even pay him, he is not spending these four hours with anyone else. Minho doesn't protest, so he guesses this was the plan anyway.

They pass Gally propped up on a bar stool by a table, sipping a beer.

Newt gives him a tiny smile. “Hiya, Gally.”

“Isaac, wassup?” But Newt doesn't stop, just winks at him. Minho's grip on him tightens but Newt refrains from looking at him before they're behind a closed door, alone.

The bed is tidy like he hasn't even been in here for longer than dumping his bag. Newt doesn't have to wonder for long whether or not Gally has paraded his victory. “He told me,” Minho mutters, scuffing his shoes against the floor.

“Jealous?” Newt asks, a little twinkle in his eye, but holding out hope that Minho is a man with a backbone. Minho bites his lip. Newt sees it and breathes slowly.

All Minho says is, “He wasn't supposed to.”

“Is there like a deal between all of you guys not to fuck me, or what?” Newt wonders honestly because Minho never told him.

“Are you okay?” Minho asks. He looks concerned, not at all as if he just dodged Newt's question.

Newt blinks at him. With any other client, he would have answered something off-point and seductive. With Minho, he doesn't know what to say. “I'm fine, thanks.”

Minho takes a step forward. “You look tired.”

“Rude.” Isaac would give in completely, but Newt only gives in slightly. “It's been a tough week, that's all.”

“What's up?”

The answer sits on Newt's lips for a long time. _I met my abusive step-father again and he negotiated with Thomas about buying me. My pimp fucked me when I was catatonic and it made me feel safe. I am so detached from my own situation I rather stay with him anyway than leave. I have to sleep with people who care nothing about me in order to survive. I realized Thomas sells drugs. I hold on to the fact that you will not fuck me as the brightest point of life. I am pathetic._ Aloud he says, “Man, you don't even want to know.”

“Try me.”

And Newt has a choice. Be Newt, bite into the sour apple and endure by himself, or be Isaac, someone who can allow himself to be defenseless and lean on another person. Newt wouldn't tell Minho about his problems. Isaac would. Newt sighs and sits down on the bed. Minho joins him promptly, a space large enough for a third person between them. “There's just a lot going on.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“It's a long story.”

“We've got time.”

“Right.” He can't forget: _One of the only people who treat me like an equal also pays for my company._ Just add that to the list. But this one wants to save him. He watches Minho quietly as he really understands that. Minho really does buy him because he doesn't want anyone else to do so. He doesn't like that Gally bought Newt outside of their parties because he tries to make Newt's life less about sex. It would be an admirable effort if it wasn't so stupid. “I… I'm not doing great.”

“What's wrong?”

“Life? Like, what isn't wrong?”

“Why don't you start with one thing?”

But telling him one thing practically means he has to tell him everything. If he talks about Ratman, he needs to talk about how he ran away. If he talks about Thomas that night he needs to talk about Ratman. If he talks about his clients, he needs to talk about Thomas. Instead of telling him anything, he asks, “You won't ever buy me to fuck me, will you?” His voice cracks unexpectedly. He hadn't realized just how much weight he had allowed behind those words. Newt can't even look at him. What if he hears a lie? Sees one? What if the only safe space he has crumbles with Minho's answer?

“No.” Newt looks up and Minho shakes his head, voice steady. “No, I won't.”

Newt breathes out and it's less of a breath and more of a sob. He fears what Thomas would say if he saw him behaving like this with a client and sucks it up. Don't cry, he tells himself. Don't you fucking start crying right now.

“Isaac…” Soft voice and the careful hand on Newt's shoulder holds no intent. Yet, Newt flinches, and the heat of Minho's fingers disappears. It's the first time Minho has touched him save a handshake. Newt gets dizzy by it. Minho murmurs a quiet, “Sorry.”

“It's fine.” How the words catch in the air, Newt doesn't know. “I'm fine.”

“No offense but it's quite obvious you're not.”

Newt snorts and wipes his nose. “Yeah.” He wonders when he really was fine last time. Before Ratman noticed him. Ironically, it was probably when Lizzie was still around and he was Isaac on the regular. At that moment, he misses her so much his entire body aches. Everything from her sense of humor to the way she always kept secrets from everyone but him. How they could sit up for entire nights and talk about the future and it hurts, even more, to look at Minho and see traces of her in the way he talks.

Newt turns towards him, not sure what he himself intends or asks for until Minho wraps his arms around him and hugs him. Lights and from a slight distance as if not to overwhelm him. Newt doesn't remember the last time he was held in an embrace that didn't involve a cock up his ass. He shuffles forward until their thighs lay pressed together, until Minho's arms lay heavy around him, until Newt can put his forehead on Minho's shoulder and his arms steely around his waist. And he cries. Forced back to a quiet sobbing because he can't relax or allow himself anything grander, but he can't deny himself completely, either. He feels absolutely gutted because being held like this is how safe is supposed to feel. There are no obligations, nothing he should or have to or need to. This is a gift, free of charge. Thomas has never given him anything he didn't have to pay for one way or another. The safety he provides is laced with rules and regulations, whereas this… This is different. It actually means something. In this room, Newt only has to be. Whatever and whoever he wants to be is up to him.

Isaac needs a knight in shining armor, and Minho wants to be that for him. Newt knows he should exploit that. He also knows that Minho will help him. “Would you buy me again?” he asks and feels awful about it. “Like Gally? When I could be taking another client, will you do it then so I don't have to? Save me another night?” He speaks the words into Minho's shoulder, the fabric wet with tears and breath. The fabric rasps against his lips and he swallows around the tightness in his throat. He tells himself that Isaac needs this, and pretends Newt doesn't need it just as much.

Without coaxing, but maybe everything Newt has said today has been one giant coax in itself, Minho says, “Yes.”

“I'm sorry I asked.”

“I said 'yes'?”

“I know.”

They stay quiet, hugging, for a long time. Minho's hand runs up at down his back, from the nape of his neck to just above his waist. He does it for so long and so many times that Newt's skin becomes over sensitive but he can't make himself ask him to stop. He could spend the remaining hours of tonight like this.

Minho is the first to pull away. “I'm starving. How about you?”

Newt wipes his face before giving him a small look. “I could eat something.” Before Minho can respond, Newt holds up a warning finger. “Unless it's beetle candy because then it's a hard pass.”

Minho laughs, shaking his head. “I've got some other stuff today.”

“Some” is a relative term but the one Minho should have used was “a lot.” Minho upends his bag on the bed and—alongside a pair of socks and underwear—all that falls out are different candies, drinks, and snacks. Newt takes off his shoes and pushes himself up into bed. Minho stands beside it and picks up an item at a time, describing it and putting it into a soon overflowing pile. There are chips with flavors such as cheeseburger and pizza, fizzy drinks with peppermint and peach flavors, bars of chocolate with other types of candy inside, sausages thinner than his pinky and longer than his forearm, cookies with frosting and pieces of weird fruit. They taste together and Newt's tense muscles relax a fraction per stupid thing Minho says.

“So, how does it work?” Minho asks when they're lying on their backs, trying not to puke because they've eaten too much. “Do I just give Stephenson a call?”

Newt turns his head to look at him. He wants to reach out, touch him. He just says, “Yeah, basically. Tell him who, when and where.”

Minho drags his hands over his own face. “Fuck, I really don't like it. Like, he doesn't own you.”

 _Except he sorta does_. Quietly, Newt says, “You don't have to.”

Minho stops before he looks at him. “That's not what I meant.” He turns to his side so he watches Newt without effort. Newt looks up the ceiling so he doesn't have to look back when Minho asks, “Do you want to work with this?”

There's not much of a choice anymore. Thinking of Krajewski, he thinks maybe there never was one. “We were all hand-picked.”

“What does that even mean?”

Newt shrugs. “For me, it meant an easily manipulated, troubled youth with no place to stay and a pretty face. If you talk to the others, I'm sure they'll tell you a similar story. We only differ…” He takes a breath, knowing Thomas is in the other room. “Thomas… prefers me.”

“What does that mean?”

Newt turns to his side, too. Minho looks soft and inviting. Newt wants to hug him again. “It means I stay at his house, eat with him, sleep with him, while the others live in apartments together.”

“He keeps you dependent on him.”

Newt blushes. “I— Yeah. We all are. But he met… He knows why I can't go home and he used it against me. I think he thinks I'm not as smart as I am. I can see what he's doing but I can't do anything about it.”

Minho nods. “That's fucked.”

Newt laughs and rolls to his stomach. He agrees into the pillow. His entire life is fucked.

He stills when fingers touch his back. There's no doubt he wants to believe Minho but it's hard to. They're silent, Newt continues to hide in the pillow, and Minho just drags his hand over his back again like he did while hugging. Nothing explorative, no intent, nothing to suggest it's even a touch for Minho's pleasure. He just does it to comfort Newt. Because his head is propped into a pillow, he allows some more tears out. They're entirely his, Newt's, and Minho just tries to soothe him without saying anything about it.

Despite the fact that he isn't allowed to, he gives Minho his number. It's when the clock is drawing to the end of the night and Minho wonders if Newt wants him to buy the entire night. Newt knows it's not necessary, Thomas won't send him working more after four hours in someone's bed. But he wants to say yes. He wants to lie next to Minho and talk about stupid candy and he wants Minho to run his fingers up his back. He shakes his head no while putting his shoes back on.

“I'll be good tonight.”

Minho nods, hands down his pockets. A bit awkward. “Alright.”

Newt throws his condoms and the lube in the trash, feeling Minho's gaze on him. He straightens and should leave before someone comes looking for him.

“I'll see you some other day then.”

Newt wants to say thank you, a million times and then some, but he doesn't know how to. In the door, he turns and gives Minho one last look. “Newt,” he says, deciding finally who he wants to be.

Minho sits on the bed and cocks his head. “What?”

Newt swallows and nods a little. “My real name is Newt Isaacs.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit is about to hit the fan
> 
> she says as if this entire fic isn't shit hitting the fan

The call comes just after dinner. Thomas looks at the unknown number before picking up his phone from the table and answering. “Mr. Sung,” Thomas says, allowing surprise to seep into his voice. He looks over at Newt, who looks back, trying hard not to perk or look too interested in this development. Thomas needs to think this is solely about Minho's wants and has nothing to do with Newt. If he figures out this whole thing is Newt's idea, Newt's going to be in so much shit. The call goes on for a few minutes, Thomas asking and answering a few questions vaguely, and he doesn't take his eyes off of Newt. To remain perfectly neutral, Newt has one hand casually over the table, picking the last of his plate and the other hand wrapped around his leg, nail pressing into it as hard as he can.

“Allow me a moment to think about it, yes? I'll call you back later.” Thomas stands still, phone on the table but his hand resting on it, giving Newt the most scrutinizing gaze ever.

“So, work?” Newt asks when he can't take it anymore.

Thomas cocks his head. “Sung wants you Thursday, eight to twelve.”

Newt shrugs. “I've got Tanner then.”

“I know.” Thomas sits down and plucks a grape from the fruit bowl. “I'm considering giving Tanner someone else.”

“What? Why?” Newt asks it as if this is something terrible, when in fact, Minho couldn't have hit a better time and date if Newt had pointed it out himself. Newt fucking hates Tanner with a passion. Getting rid of him would be _great_.

Thomas arches a brow. “Four hours over two, and although Tanner seems to enjoy you, he's never been one to change his schedule. I can bring someone else in to get them both.”

Newt nods but doesn't say anything.

“But first, I want you to tell me about him.”

“Tanner?”

Thomas looks amused. “Sung. He hasn't used my service before you, and now he wants you privately. I want to know what's up with that.”

“Oh.” Newt sits up straighter. “Well, he's… He kind of kidnapped me from Gally the first night.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Yeah, like, I was clearly going to go with Gally, but… Sung swept in and took me away as if none of the others mattered. I didn't know he never had taken anyone else, I just thought he had a particular taste or had a vendetta with Gally.”

“You said he wanted to kiss? Anything else?”

“Yeah, you know, way more of a boyfriend experience than anything. Maybe he has gotten in over his head, thinking we're, well, in love, or something. He's always very doe-eyed.” Newt says it as if just realizing this could be the reason as if he hasn't thought about exactly what to say. With another little shrug, he adds, “Gally said he's possessive. That's why he had to buy me privately, too.”

Thomas nods slowly. “You think he's going to be a problem?”

“I don't think he likes the thought of me with other people. He knows he has to buy me to be with me, though. It's not like he can buy me all the time, so he'll have to settle. But yeah, it might be a problem. It's not right now, however, and I can always play him into something we like better. If you want. I've just played along with him this far.”

Thomas thinks it over. “I don't want him to get any ideas,” he says finally, reaching over for Newt's chin. “He can have you every now and then, but in the end, you are no one's but _mine_.”

For the first, unabashed, full-hearted time, Newt feels like nothing but property. He belongs to Thomas, not as an equal but an object. He has understood it before, but he has never had it so up in his face outspoken before that the realization knocks him over the head. “Of course, Tommy,” he agrees and lowers his gaze.

“I'll notify Tanner.”

~~

Thomas sends Newt to Minho's apartment in a cab just as normal and Newt, for the first time, hasn't filled his pockets with supplies. He's terrified Minho has been playing him now is going to fuck him anyway, but he wants to believe that isn't the case so badly he disregards safety.

The house Minho lives in is a ginormous apartment complex, rows and rows of glass walls and black walls. Newt wonders just how much money a runner makes these days, or if it all comes from his internet fame. He has to state his name and business for the port guard and is let in only as he says he's a friend Minho's. It's terrifying, but he has talked with enough people to make the process smooth. The elevator is quick and quiet.

Minho's door is blue. Newt knocks. He's been in this situation time and time again, he shouldn't be nervous about it. Minho opens the door with a careful smile. He's better dressed today than Newt has ever seen him before. His sweats are exchanged for black jeans and his henley a dress shirt. Newt forces himself not to blush at the thought that it feels like Minho dressed up for him.

“Newt,” Minho says. Then as if he's unsure about it, he asks, “Or do you prefer Isaac?”

Newt steps in at Minho's hand gesture, which must be an invitation. It makes his heart tick but he says, “Newt's fine. Thanks.” He smells Minho's deodorant, athletic and lemony, before he smells the scents of the flat. The hallway is dark so the smells of cinnamon and orange hit before any other sense can pick up anything. It smells like something is baking, or has recently been baked. He sees all the lights after that, as he looks into the apartment. Two doors lead to what looks to be the kitchen and the living room, both of which are dashed heavy with fairy lights and other small lamps and light sources. Newt can even spot a pink lava lamp in the presumed living room. On the floor underneath him is a welcome mat to wipe one's shoes off with some red dressed superhero or another on it. There are too many jackets on the hooks for only one person, and Newt wonders if maybe Minho has a roommate. As Newt's gaze falls on him, he realizes he has unabashedly just looked around instead of tending to his client. He sucks in a breath.

“Sorry,” he says.

Minho waves for him to hang his jacket on an overfull hook. “For what?”

Newt doesn't know what to say. He feels entirely off. The wall that has been Isaac is gone, he's Newt. He doesn't even feel like an escort because Nick is the escort, Isaac has been just a guy, but Newt is somehow both of them and neither of them. He doesn't know what that means, how many safety guards he has let down for the man in front of him. “I feel out of my element,” he says. Lies won't get him far, he figures.

“That's cool. I haven't done anything like this before, so I have no idea what usually happens either.” Minho looks at him. The once over is quick but Newt watches him so he doesn't miss it.

As if he is compelled to, Newt asks, voice hoarse but breaking the silence harshly, “Do you want to fuck?”

Newt expects the question to linger, take time before he gets an answer, but Minho shakes his head immediately. “No.”

Newt can see the “yes” in his eyes. To his own surprise, it doesn't sour his throat to see it because he knows Minho won't do anything about it. He finds Newt attractive, he buys his times, but he won't make a move he considers inappropriate. The notion even makes Newt feel relaxed. He doesn't mention it, just nods. “So… What's the plan?”

Minho shrugs. “Haven't thought that far. Wanna see the place?”

Newt thinks Minho is lying, he does know what he wants to do but he lets Minho show him around. There's a bathroom to the right just out of the hall. The bedroom is the door to the left of it, next to the living room. His bedroom overflows with old trophies and medals, as well as a wide array of superhero posters, stickers, and figurines.

“I like the Flash,” Minho says and Newt snickers. Minho's like a child in a grown body, but Newt dismisses himself quickly because he guesses it's just as being obsessed with football or an artist. He looks at the artworks and comments on a few, Minho practically radiating when he gets to talk about it. Newt smiles at him and he has never before felt so extremely non-sexual in a boy's bedroom. It's nice. The living room displays an even more impressive collection of lights than Newt had seen from the hallway, and Minho prides himself in comic books and blu-rays, a life far from what Newt is used to.

“Do you have a roommate?” he asks when they go into the kitchen and the fridge is so stocked up things fall out when Minho opens it to get himself a snack.

“No?” he responds while putting a package of yogurt and a couple of tomatoes back in as if it is a weird conclusion

“All that food and all those jackets are only yours?”

Minho straightens, nose in the air. “I'm an elite athlete with a love for clothes. Deal with it.”

“This is the first time I've seen you in anything else than sweats, so excuse me if I have to take your word for it.”

Minho sputters but can't contradict him. He really has only worn very lazy clothes before. Instead of taking out anything to eat, Minho turns and leans against the fridge door.

“Let me treat you to dinner.”

Newt cocks his head. “Why?”

“Just say yes. Let me give you something.” He looks halfway to desperate to. Newt doesn't know what it means. He leans against the kitchen counter and shrugs.

“You _are_ paying me.”

Minho's gaze drops. “I… Yeah. I know.” He glances up, a small smile on his lips. “So, let me do something nice for you, too.”

Newt doesn't argue that money is pretty nice in itself. He could eat.

~~

He sits all through dinner telling himself it's not a date. Minho takes him to an Italian restaurant he doesn't even dare pronounce the name of but supposedly translate roughly to “a drop of paradise” and they eat garlic bread and pasta as if the world is ending. Newt hasn't laughed or smiled or felt relaxed like this in weeks or months—or if he's really honest: years. It's hard to remember they didn't just meet at a party and sought out each other's company because they wanted to. They work. So Newt has to keep himself in check. Think about the money. About Thomas. About what Minho won't do because he's paying Newt to be here. But Newt wants to forget, so time and time again he does.

When by the end of dinner he reaches forward and puts his hand atop Minho's on the table, he does it because he wants to. Minho slides his hand away. The tension quickly thickens and Newt curses himself for ruining a perfect moment.

“I didn't mean…”

Minho shakes his head. “I just don't want to get ideas.”

Newt understands. He's giving himself ideas as they speak. “I'm sorry.” Their waiter comes with their bill. Minho pays with a smile. Newt waits for them to leave before he continues. “I've had a great time.” He says it simply, no fake sultry undertones, no nothing. Minho looks at him. His face is soft, he gives a little smile. Newt wishes intently he could kiss him.

Minho says, “Me too.” He pushes his chair out. “Let's go.”

Newt is glad that they find their way back to easy banter and talking before they've even left. He wonders what will happen with the last couple of hours, if Minho has a plan. He walks towards his apartment again, a slow stroll. Newt spots a fountain on another street and he wants to go there. Without putting too much thought into it, he takes Minho's hand and drags him off. Minho's laugh is warm and his fingers cold. The fountain turns out to be larger than Newt had seen. Three spears of marble shooting water into the air, and splashing it down in an oblong pool underneath. It's really kind of ugly, but the water catches the lights from the surrounding shop signs and street lamps.

“It could've been pretty,” Newt says and they both laugh. It's not until Minho releases Newt's hand that he realizes that they were still holding. Newt blushes and stares up at the water.

“Have a wish?” Minho asks. Newt looks at him pinching a quarter between his fingers and holding it out for Newt. It's fitting Minho should give him money, but the quarter holds something different than any of the other. Newt takes it.

There are other coins at the bottom of the fountain when Newt looks down. He plops his own into it and wishes there a day when he went on a real date like this and didn't worry about anything. He smiles at Minho and watches him plop a quarter of his own into the water, eyes closed as he makes his wish. Newt reaches out and takes his hand again. Minho's gaze is quickly on him, and this time, he doesn't pull away. It's like they agree that just for a moment, it's okay.

Just for the rest of the walk back to Minho's.

They don't touch at all for the rest of the night. Deliberately so, but Newt finds himself wanting to reach out. It's not safe. He shouldn't want to. He's been through enough to know not to fall for someone like Minho, but he doesn't know how not to. He's given humility and generosity, friendship and zero expectations. Minho treats him like you're supposed to treat another person, and Newt should know better than to think that's cause for stirring up feelings. But there's more. Minho and he click. They have fun. Newt knows they could be good together if ever they got the chance. It's not happening, not with Thomas breathing down his neck and not with Minho paying for his company, but maybe, Newt thinks, in another universe.

~~

“ _Sweetheart!”_

Newt wakes but it's not morning. It's late afternoon and he must have fallen asleep over his magazine in bed. He figures because that's how he wakes up; Thomas bangs on his door.

Newt scrambles up quickly at the same time as Thomas realizes there's no lock on the door, and they run straight into each other. Newt looks up and finds fires of black staring back at him. Rage, he deduces in a heartbeat, and he has no time to run away before Thomas grabs his hair and holds him in place. “Did you think I wouldn't find out?” he bellows, like Newt already knows what he is talking about. “Do you think I'm stupid, boy?” The grip on his hair tightens even more and Newt whines, trying to pry Thomas' hands away.

“I don't know what you're talking about, Tommy! You're hurting me, _please_.” He's not used to anger, not even from Thomas, and this is not just a careless charade but an actual outrage. His entire scalp hurts already and Thomas' breath on his face is hot and inescapable. Then it's nowhere to be found. His body flies through the air in a quick motion. He yelps and reflexively throws his hands out and thankfully he lands on the bed, bouncing once and skidding up it towards the pillows. He flicks the hair out of his face and stares at Thomas who takes a couple measured steps and throws a magazine in Newt's face. It slaps him hard and he forces down a whimper.

The magazine falls down, open on the middle spread and by a quick glance, Newt can't find the reason for Thomas' behavior. His fingers shake and he's not even sure what he's looking for when he picks it up and closes it, turning the cover upwards. Whatever he had thought he'd see, somehow a picture of himself was not it. He could have stared at it for a long time if Thomas hadn't snapped the paper away again, flipping through the pages until he finds what he is looking for. Newt watches him, cold with fear, as he starts reading from somewhere in the middle of the article.

_“Sung and the Mystery Boy seemed to get over whatever had happened in the diner quickly, only a few minutes later they were spotted holding hands by The Wishing Fountain. They both sent a wish and the tension could be cut with a butter knife. No kiss was shared in the streetlights, but their faces said it all. You heard it here first, folks: Minho Sung is a taken man.”_

Thomas' voice is a hard mock and the words cut like daggers through the heart. Newt has not even thought about the fact that maybe somebody would _care_ if he held Minho's hand other than Minho himself. That somebody cares enough to take pictures of them and write an in-depth article about their supposed “date” is even more far fetched, but evidently, Minho is interesting enough. It is a problem. When Thomas throws the paper again, this time to the floor, Newt can tell it is a _big_ problem.

“You had me looking like a fool,” Thomas says. The mockery is gone. There is only ice left. “'He likes the boyfriend-experience, Tommy.'” Thomas uncuffs his dress shirt; Newt swallows and watches him carefully. “'It might become a problem; he's possessive; I can play him however you like.'” Thomas rolls his sleeves up, then looks down at Newt shifting on the bed. “You're in love with this dude.”

“Tommy, no—”

“Don't fucking start!” The calm composure evaporates. Newt sucks in a breath. “You lied to me! You're so fucking stupid you lied to me and gave me undeniable proof that you did. You only saw the cover, but the real juicy bits are inside.” The grin plastered on his face is wicked and raw, all teeth and no warmth. Newt doesn't look at his face, he looks at Thomas' hands. Swift and with clear intent, Thomas snaps his belt out of its loops. It's with horror and relief Newt watches him as he drops it to the floor. He could have just as easily used it on him. Newt desperately tells himself to be _happy,_ to be _grateful_ Thomas isn't going to use it on him.

“It's time you learn your place in this fucking house.”

Newt doesn't fight him. He doesn't even say anything. He knows it's not worth it, he knows Thomas won't see reason, he knows that even the resemblance of denial will leave him broken on the floor when Thomas is done with him, and he'll be broken enough without the extra fuel. Endure, he says to himself. It's a vow: endure, and I promise you will be okay after.

The vow breaks as soon as it is over. Violated and hollowed out, he grips the bathroom sink with both hands and breathes heavily between his shoulders, his forehead rested against the cold edge of the white ceramic. His clothes are sloppily undressed or re-dressed depending on, and they hang off his body like rags. Breathing is harder than ever, and standing, god, how is he even standing right now? He's been through worse, he tells himself. He has maneuvered worse and came out standing. He's not even hurt. Grow up. Get a hold of yourself. Breathe. He looks at himself and wishes he hadn't. He thought he'd left that boy when he ran away.

Thomas snaps his fingers at him but says nothing. Newt watches him disappear through the door to the master bedroom and stands still for a few seconds before going into his own room. He doesn't dare to stay, but he changes into sleeping clothes that doesn't remind him of terrible deeds and grabs his phone from the nightstand and shoves it down into his pocket.

Thomas is in the shower in the en suite when Newt hazes inside. Everything looks exactly like it has always done, but it's changed forever. It's ironic how long it has taken before Thomas breached Newt's limits. If Newt had been normal, this room would have been the same then as it is now. But Newt's not normal and instead, he's been here countless times over the last couple months without feeling much in particular about it. Now, the bed is too big and too small and too intimate and too clinical at the same time. Now, smelling Thomas' cologne and knowing he'll press his skin to Newt's in a few minutes makes Newt want to run back out again. With whatever willpower he has left, he slips into bed, shirt and sweats still on and he stares up at the ceiling.

Thomas finds him like that and lets him be. It seems he wants Newt in there to punish him further, to really show him what a mess he has made because he makes calls to Newt's regulars. With a steady voice, as charming as ever, he assures them that his boys work with the utmost discretion and that this kind of happenstance is completely unacceptable. It will never happen again, he says. _Newt is off the grid_ , whatever that means. Fearing it means he never will be allowed to leave the house again, Newt finally can't hold together. The tears stream quietly. He doesn't even sob, just feels the cold wetness in his ears and doesn't even bother to wipe them away. Because he doesn't acknowledge it, it takes until Thomas undresses and gets into bed that he even notices that Newt's crying. He pats Newt's cheek and turns the lights off.

~~

Without even closing his eyes, Newt lies awake next to Thomas the entire night. When light starts creeping through the curtains, Thomas moves, turns his back towards Newt and sleeps on. Finally, Newt moves. He looks at Thomas, the back of his head, and wishes he could snap his neck. Instead, he reaches down slowly and pulls his phone out of his pocket. The brightness hurts his eyes. 03:46. He only has a handful of numbers, but he taps up the newest addition.

 **Newt:** Hey

For some reason, it takes less than half a minute for his phone to ding with a response. Newt scrambles and drops the phone in his face. He hadn't expected a response so he had not turned the sound off. He casts Thomas a glance, not breathing, but Thomas snores quietly.

With shaking fingers, Newt taps the message open.

 **Minho:** Hi

Newt doesn't know what to respond to someone at four in the morning even if it was him who started. Awkwardly, he taps out a reply.

 **Newt:** You up?

 **Minho:** Early as a bird.

The corner of Newt's mouth pulls up. He wonders if maybe Minho is actually half sleeping.

 **Newt:** We were in the papers.

 **Minho:** Guess we're dating now. It must be true, the internet says so. No, but sorry about that. I didn't even think to tell you it might happen. I'm just so used to it. I didn't mean to get you in the crossfire.

 **Newt:** It's okay.

It definitely wasn't okay, but it was also not Minho's fault. And Minho saying that they are dating, however much of a joke it is, makes Newt feel a tiny bit better. If only he could, he would date the shit out of the man.

 **Minho:** Even my friends ask me about you.

 **Newt:** What do you tell them?

 **Minho:** That it's too early to say what's going to happen.

Newt likes that answer. It means that maybe in the future, they will have a chance.

~~

They text until Thomas' phone rings in the morning and Newt sends off a quick “ttyl” and turns his phone off. There's no way he's going to get into the habit of regularly checking his phone and Thomas reading his and Minho's conversation. He could just delete it, but he doesn't want to. The mundane of it is the first thing in a long time that feels real and Newt wants to hold on to that feeling.

It floats away from him, reality and mundane, when Thomas tells him who has booked him for that night. Enrique has whispered about him in cab rides and doorways, of the man he wishes he could strangle to death with his own intestines if only he wasn't so squeamish about blood. It's not a nice man. And Newt is so wrapped up on his own not-so-nice-man that he doesn't know how to comprehend working for another.

He drags himself through the motions of getting ready, showers, dresses, fixes his hair, gets his supplies. His fingers won't stop shaking even when he audibly curses them out for failing him. It's like this is the first job. This is when everything changes, this is when he properly sells himself to Thomas. He knows that he did that a long time ago, but he's been able to pretend up until this point that he's free to do whatever he wants but he doesn't have any options except this so he chooses this. But it's not an option he would choose now. He could live on the street or jump off a building, and either way, he'd be better off. Unless Thomas decided to nurse him back to health when he inevitably broke his leg on his impact with the tarmac. Then, he'd be proper helpless. Newt shudders at the thought.

The reflection shows a young man with too much baggage. He avoids looking into it. Nick looks too much like Newt for it to be safe.

When the sun has set, Thomas ushers him out of the house. The cab should be here soon, he says, like he can't wait to get rid of Newt. On the porch, Newt stops and breathes deeply, eyes closed. He's not in the right mindset for the client he's about to take on. The black Bugatti is carelessly parked in the driveway. Newt wishes intently he had learned how to drive so he could steal the keys, he knows Thomas keeps them in his bedside table with his lube and his little black book, and he would just drive. Pass state after state until he found one that didn't make him feel like home in any way and there he'd sell the car and start over. The plan is flawed, not only because he doesn't know how to drive, but the thought is still comforting as Newt makes way down the drive, light fingers dragging over the roof of the car as he passes it. It is a dream and costs more than Newt will ever own in his life. His fingers slide off. He doesn't look back.

The cab isn't on the sidewalk when he approaches the gate, but he walks out anyway. The gate screams from the hinges as he closes it. If it's better to wait or get it over with, Newt's not sure, but he pushes his hands into his jacket pockets and sighs.

“Newt!” To his left, Newt spots a huddled figure rising from the sidewalk, in a hurry to approach him. Newt's blood runs cold enough to freeze him in place. “My _boy,”_ Ratman says, “look at you!” His hands are on Newt's upper arms, his shoulders, his neck, and his eyes rake all over Newt's body. He brushes invisible dust from his collarbone and grins up at him. “Ain't Stephenson treating you just right?”

The smell of smokey whiskey, minty toothpaste, and sour cologne is at once as familiar as it is repulsing. “Don't—” Newt shrugs him off and takes a step back. He can't breathe. “What are you doing here, Janson?”

“Is that a way to greet your dad?” Ratman looks like he's pretending to scold him, a finger pointed in Newt's direction.

Newt wants to throw up. “You're not my _dad,”_ he forces out of himself.

Ratman waves a hand and tsks. “Real dad this, step-dad that, it's all the same.”

“No,” Newt says, “it really isn't.”

Ratman is at once done playing games. “Well, fun's over, kid, you're coming home with me.”

“I'm nineteen,” Newt says quickly, his heart speeding. He's a legal adult, Ratman can't force him to go home.

But the look on Ratman's face says his age is not a hinder but an open door. “All the more reason.” His fingers dig into Newt's upper arm and hold him in place. With effort, Newt pulls away, but Ratman only grabs him harder and with both hands the next time. “I'll take you home and make sure you tell your dear old mother what you've been up to. That you ran away to become a whore, making money on the side when she sits worrying about you.” He spits in Newt's face as he talks, and Newt turns his head to the side to get away from it. He wishes he hadn't when Ratman leans in then and doesn't even care enough to lower his voice to a whisper when he speaks in his ear. “Mommy dearest has been worried sick about her only son. Little does she know you've been living it up with a loaded pimp and selling yourself to famous athletes. What do you think she'll say when I show your picture in the magazine?”

Newt remembers her glances that barely passed over him, resentment and the most fucked up form of jealous. “She won't give a shit.” He pushes at Ratman again but Ratman doesn't budge, he doesn't even take a step back. That fucking magazine destroys his life, and for what? Gossip about a relationship that could never be. It's unfair. Hyperventilating against his cheek, Newt tells himself not to cry, not now, not here, not with him.

“Of course she'll care.” Ratman adjusts his grip on him, suffocating and absolute. “She'll think about all that money you've made and kept to yourself. She'll probably whore you out herself, blaming you for not coming up with that idea in the first place.”

Newt knows that's a lie, she would never, but just the thought of it is enough to make him recoil and finally slip out of Ratman's grip. He staggers backwards and pushes his hand down his pocket to call Thomas, but he realizes that his phone is still turned off and it'll take at least a minute to get it on again.

“I'm not leaving with you,” he says, stalling for time to figure out what to do.

“Oh, you are,” Ratman corrects him, “and we're gonna have so much _fun_ together again.”

Over Ratman's shoulder, Newt sees his savior, his only way out; the cab has just pulled up to the curb. Only Ratman stands between it and Newt. Newt turns his gaze on Ratman. Really looks at him. His lip pulls up further on the one side over his yellowing teeth, his beard is too long to be a conscious shadow, and Newt remembers just exactly how his calloused hands feel when he's just a little too eager and how they feel when he knows he's got time. There is no way he's going to live through that again.

“Fine.” It's the voice he reserves only for him, for a quiet surrender that means Ratman has won. The lone word leaves a vile taste in his mouth despite it being said as a lie. Just seeing Ratman's reaction to it makes him pull back just a little bit more before he launches at him. He's got no strength nor bodily advantage, but he does have hard bones and Ratman's crotch is such a perfect height to drive a knee into. He doubles over with a loud “oumph.” Newt spares only the slightest second, leaning down and whispering, “Touch me again, and I'll fuck you up.” Ratman throws a hand out, grabbing Newt's wrist but he's disoriented enough not to hold on when Newt kicks him in the shins.

When he's free, he bolts for the car. The driver has watched the scene and is quick to pull away from the curb when Newt yells at him to. For a second, Newt thinks he's going to ask or offer help, but then he doesn't. Newt doesn't know what he would have said anyway.

The cab is warm and Newt shrugs out of his jacket, his skin vibrating with adrenaline and his forehead drips. The window is cool so he leans against it, catching his breath. Nothing feels alright or like it will be either, and now he's on a predestined route to one of Thomas' most violent clients. Newt laughs. Short and unsteadily. Just his fucking luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, like i know it's actuallt Rat Man but that's so ugly so i choose to ignore it


	6. Chapter 6

This time, Newt knows it's going to be his fault that he got hurt. 

With his lip split, he catches a cab and it pulls off the curb easily after Newt has said the address. He's not crying, he notices. The world seems dull and colorless and he touches his lip over and over, the sharp sting piercing through the numbness for a second each time. It keeps him grounded. Things are shit, he knows it, and he's trudging deep, mindless waters, he knows it, but he feels. Something, he feels, even if it pain. That's good, he tells himself. He has to hold onto that, the feelings. The sensations that he's falling isn't a feeling. It's a bad memory. 

Last time he was this helpless, he was seventeen and out of time. He was stupid and managed to get himself stuck in a nightmare for six months. 

It's not until the cabbie pulls up on the curb again and Newt looks out to see an apartment complex instead of the house, that he realizes that this time, he didn't go to the tallest building available with rooftop access, but instead to someone with the means to help him. 

~~

The doorman remembers him and the split lip makes it even easier to be allowed into the elevator. Somehow, he manages to smile at the man before the doors slide shut. He presses the button to Minho's floor and takes out his phone, pressing buttons to Minho there too. 

Minho picks up with a surprised, “ _ Newt _ ?” 

That's  _ him _ . Newt, who has been through every shitty thing life can throw at him twice in a row and who still opens his eyes in the mornings. Newt, who isn't Nick or Isaac or any other pseudonym he's gone under to avoid being himself. Newt, who is so tired of being trapped he rather trust someone who he has never met outside of prostitution than anyone else. It's just… him. It comes out broken and hoarse when he says, “Hi.”

“ _ Hey, are you— _ ”

Newt cuts him off. “Are you home?” 

Minho takes “ _ Yeah, I'm _ —”

That's when he realizes what he's doing. The elevator seems suddenly very small and he's suffocating again. His words come out stuttered. “I know this is completely inappropriate but—”

This time, Minho cuts him off. “ _ Where are you _ ?”

“In the elevator.” Newt laughs. He's so fucked up. 

“ _ What elevator _ ?”

The doors ding. “Yours.” And they slide open. He stares out, phone pressed to his ear as he hears Minho rumble. Then, a blue door clangs open in the corridor and Minho's frame becomes visible. Newt steps out of the elevator. Minho moves towards him, faster with every pace and Newt finds himself gravitating towards him. He's going to be okay now. Minho is going to help him. And then Newt presses his face into Minho's shoulder, crying hard enough that his entire body shakes as he sobs. Minho's arms are around his shoulders, a hand to the back of Newt's head, and he smells like cinnamon. Newt tries to tell him that he's sorry, but Minho hushes him.

“Don't worry about it,” he says into Newt's hair and Newt doesn't remember the last time he didn't worry about everything. Minho repeats himself as Newt sobs harder at that, and he does it again when Newt quiets down. Newt doesn't look up but he hears Minho's neighbor enter the hallway and pass them. Minho moves a little, maybe he greets them, and then he whispers for Newt to follow him inside.

Newt barely registers the walk from the hallway to the couch, only that Minho holds him. He's quiet when Minho inspects his mouth, determining he doesn't need to go to the hospital but rather have some band-aids and an ice pack which he leave to get. Newt breathes on the couch, staring at some Flash figurines. 

“Here we go.” 

Neet looks up at Minho as he re-enters. He takes this with such stride, with ease and confidence Newt would have just dreamed about. “Thomas snapped,” Newt says when Minho sits. 

Minho nods and wipes his lip with some wet paper. “So he hit you?”

Newt looks away from his face. “No, this was a client, just now.”

“I thought—”

“Thomas knows he's violent. He wanted to… punish me.” After a beat, he adds, “More.”

“Thomas did something else, too?”

“He—” But the words won't come. Thomas has fucked him on numerous occasions, but it has never been like last night. Not even during long sessions with Thomas in character and Newt crying for him to stop doing something. He knows what words he should use, what he's been through, but he can't say it. Can't make it real like that. He only responds with, “Yeah.” And Minho seems to draw a fairly accurate presumption himself. 

“What happened?” Minho asks, looking at Newt's hair as he cradles his fingers through it. 

Newt looks at him. He doesn't want to tell him it's because they had a nice time, because it's not accurate exactly. “The pictures,” he explains desperately. “They were all over magazines and I'm supposed to be discrete and—”  _ not in love with my clients _ . The thought punches through his heart and he has to suck in a breath not to say it out loud. 

Minho's hand has gone still and he stares at Newt's lips, not like people usually stares at his mouth, with want and lust but instead with terrifying realization. His fault, Minho must think. His fault that Thomas snapped, his fault Newt's hurt, his fault—

“It's not,” Newt says, despite the fact that Minho said none of it aloud. 

“But—”

“No. You couldn't have known. It's all my fault, I should have been more careful and—” 

“Hey, if it's not my fault, it's definitely not yours.” 

Newt swallows and nods. It isn't the truth but it's a nice thought to cling to. “My mom's husband saw the pictures and— Well, he came to the house.” Before Minho can ask anything about it, Newt hurries to continue. “He wanted me to go back… home. I told him to fuck off basically and kicked him in the balls.”

“Sounds appropriate.” Minho does not know much about Newt's home life, but apparently, Newt has accidentally revealed enough for a chilly reaction. It's nice. No one has ever disliked Ratman before Thomas and just the validation that Newt is allowed to dislike him makes him bold. 

“Nothing with him is  _ appropriate _ .”

They stare at each other. Newt thinks Minho gets it, but neither of them mentions it further. 

“We need pizza,” Minho declares and gets up to call for some. He squeezes Newt's shoulder when he goes and Newt breathes out. Then, his phone rings. He stares at the caller ID for three seconds before panic takes over and he turns the phone off. Minho comes back and Newt pretends Thomas didn't just call him. 

“How you feeling?” Minho asks as he sits down again.

“Like I want to get out of these clothes, could I—”

“Of course,” Minho stands, not even letting Newt ask the question. “You know where the bathroom is, I'll go get you some change.”

Newt huddles into the bathroom and practically scolds himself on the hot water in the shower. His skin is red when he dries off. He breathes out slowly, eyes closed and heart racing, when he opens the door and a stack of clothes lie outside it. This is not a repeat, he tells himself. Minho isn't nice just to get into his pants. This is not Thomas. He dresses quickly anyway. 

Minho flips through the channels when Newt comes back out, pizza slice in hand. Without a word, he holds up the box and Newt takes a piece while standing behind the couch, watching the programmes roll past. The physical barrier between them is comforting after the finding-clothes-after-a-shower deja vu, and he stands there until Minho settles on an early 2000s rom-com. He slides down on the opposite end of the couch and snags more pizza while Minho dramatically reciting the lines. 

“So, you've never seen this before?”

Minho smiles. “What can I say? I'm a romantic.”

Newt rolls his eyes. Of course he is. It's not like Newt hates rom-coms, so he settles in and tries to enjoy it the best he can. 

Minho graciously allows Newt to choose the third movie. He flips through the choices and stops on Pretty Woman. It's not the same, he tells himself, but he puts it on without looking at Minho. As they watch it in silence, he hopes that Minho takes it for the weird kind of thank you that it is. 

~~

Newt becomes keenly aware of how quiet it is when the end credits stops and the screen goes black.

“What happens now?” Minho doesn't look at him, but his attention is nowhere else despite it. It is a moment like any other moment since he got out of the elevator, yet it is the first moment in which Newt acknowledges himself and Minho as a unit rather than separate entities. 

Newt turns to him, a wish on a coin inside a shitty fountain suddenly flesh and blood sitting opposite him. He's not completely free, he knows, but right now he is not in clutches—not Thomas', not money's, not anything. Freedom is fleeting and Newt has seen little of it lately. He doesn't want to let it pass him by. There's no reaction when he scoots closer, but Minho senses his intentions when their thighs connect. It's not a flinch or him pushing Newt away, but it is clear dismissal when he turns towards him. Since it should be an invitation, Newt doesn't know what to do, but he needs to explain himself, he needs...

Minho says nothing, so Newt kisses him. His lip hurts, it pounds hotly and stings when he purses his mouth, but he doesn't care. The heat from Minho's breath and his hand on Newt's knee are bigger fires anyway, and his lip disappears like a small spark in everything else. Minho pulls back. Newt leans forward further and kisses him again. This time, it's a desperate chase of a dream he's waking up from. Minho takes a breath and Newt puts a hand on his chest to stop him from talking. 

“Because I want to,” Newt whispers even though he's not a romantic. He's here because he wants to be, because he knew, deep down, that Minho would help him no matter what. Money, no money, a call before, no call. He looks into Minho's eyes, black and beautiful, and he says it again. “I want to. And you do too, I think. We want to and nothing can stop us right now, right? This is not a job and you're not just— and I'm not just— We're just like anyone else. Right?”

“That's really not the case.”Minho's hand rubs his shoulder as if Newt is crying again and maybe he is for all Newt knows. He trips over his own words, and Minho presses their foreheads together. “We're nothing like anyone else, and you know it. But I…”

Newt waits, and the wait is longer than the rest of his life combined. “You what?” He sniffs. He's rather pathetic, isn't he?

“I want you here. I want this, I—” 

The relief of just not being wrong about it is enough to draw out a shaky laugh. He grabs Minho's chin and kisses him again, firm but easier on his own lip. For… pleasure. Minho pulls him in, hands in his borrowed shirt, the steadiness of him making Newt melt into him, into his softness and edges and his open mouth. Were there ever a time Newt wishes he could live in, it was these minutes of kissing Minho and knowing that it means something. When was the last time anything meant anything?

Newt doesn't even realize that his fingers are tugging at Minho's shirt before a gentle hand takes a hold of his wrist. “I don't think that's where we want to go right now.” 

It's not what he'd expected, even if he should have. Of course, Minho isn't kissing him for sex. It's never about sex with him. “Are you…”

“Still not impotent, no.” Minho smiles. “But I don't want more than this, right now.” For the first time, Minho is the one to lean in and the kiss he delivers to his sentence is soft and slick. “And I think you need rest and time, whatever you might want.” 

Disappointment and relief mix together into a newly discovered cocktail of emotions. He has had a thousand combinations including each of them through the years, but this is new and undiscovered territory and he finds that he doesn't so much hate it or enjoy it as it brings him peace. This just is. And Minho kisses him until his skin is a phantom shell that too many people have put their hands on and what Minho is touching feels like something underneath all of that and he has forgotten his own name. 

~~

In the early morning, he wakes up dying. Bolting out of bed, he nearly passes out by the sudden rush of blood coursing through his body. The world fades to black and purple and he doesn't remember his ass hitting the floor but suddenly he's pressing his back against a bed frame, trying to draw breath and to feel where he ends and someone else begins. Ratman, Thomas, the client from yesterday. His lip is scabbed when he touches it, and he wants to wail out through all the pain that his body has had to endure in such a short time. All he manages is a panicked growl before his vision clears and shows him a room full of red and lightning and books. 

“Hey—”

And another man, who's fingers touch Newt's shoulder. Newt can barely breathe, so he can much less think before he flinches from the touch and scoots himself away on the cool linoleum floor. Mussed black hair and a calming hand reaches towards him but when Newt shakes his head, Minho stays put on the bed. His body is not his own right now and he needs it back before he can allow it to be touched. After a few futile attempts to take deep breaths and Minho trying to coach him through it, trying to help but really just making matters worse, Newt finally snaps and tells Minho to shut up. The sudden outburst in the panic brings both of them to a baffled stalemate. Minho sits back on the bed, arms around himself but it looks more like he's fighting off cold rather than a broken dude-bro ego. Newt draws a few deep breaths and starts to shiver, then shake, when the panic subdues and is switched into anxiety. What has he done? He didn't go ho— to Thomas after he finished up with his client, he didn't even call, he didn't even fucking answer when  _ Thomas  _ called. Shit. He'd turned his phone off.  _ Fuck.  _ His knees buckles when he tries to stand, so he crawls back to the bed and reaches up for his phone on the bedside table. 

There are many, many missed calls from Thomas. His voice mail is filled with almost the same double-digit figure as the call log, and Newt does not dare to tap the screen to listen to even one. He's not sure he could, with his phone jumping practically out of his grip every few seconds. Another deep breath. 

The phone rings again, then. Newt wants to throw it away and throw up, but instead, he swipes a sweaty finger over the green button and presses the phone hard to his ear. There's rustle on the bed, but it gets quickly drowned out by Thomas' yells. 

Newt sits for a minute just listening because he doesn't know what else to do. He's screwed. Thomas didn't have to scream in English for Newt to know that, it could have been Polish and the meaning would have rung clearly without translation. 

Newt tries to tell Thomas about Ratman and the violent one, his bruised lip and his stepfather's threats, and it gets drowned out when Thomas then finds other things to be upset about rather than just the fact that he hasn't shown back up at the house. His lip got split? He should have come home and Thomas would have dealt with it, hadn't he done so before when Newt was hurt, huh? And Janson showed up again? Like Thomas hadn't taken care of him before, hitting him in the face and kicking him out of the service?  _ Saved  _ Newt from having to endure a night of retched passion with his step-father? 

“I just—”

“ _ I have protected you through all of this _ ,” Thomas goes on, “ _ and where the fuck did you turn off to instead _ ?” The question sounds rhetorical, like he already knows the answer so Newt doesn't even try to lie. Thomas snorts humorless. “ _ Don't fucking tell me you are at Sung's? Of course, you are, you fucking _ —” 

Newt closes his eyes and breathes deeply. “Please. Tommy.”

“ _ Don't you ‘Please, Tommy' me, you cunt. I have invested in you, Newtie-boy _ —”he says the pet-name so mockingly the words drips through the phone”— _ time and money and you don't exactly have the leverage to go fucking off on the side before my investment has paid off.” _

“But I—” 

“ _ Shut the fuck up. You don't have a say, you just do whatever the fuck I say, and what I'm saying right now, are you listening? What I say is this: Get your fucking ass downstairs and into the cab I'm sending you and get your shit-ass self back here before I come there and rip your arms off dragging you out. You got that _ ?”

“Yes.” A self-preservation automatic he unconsciously taps into makes him finish the sentence with, “ _ sir.”  _ When he listens for a response, the line is dead and he doesn't even know if Thomas waited long enough to hear his reply. 

Newt wipes his nose and throws the phone up on the nightstand again. He doesn't shake, but he shivers from the cold, the floor against his naked legs, the air against his naked upper body. He wears a pair of stupidly red track shorts over his underwear, but that is it. It had felt good last night when he'd fallen asleep with his calf hooked around Minho's. Fuck,  _ Minho _ . 

It is impossible to read Minho's expression. He sits cross-legged on top of the covers, still holding himself and staring down at the floor, not exactly where Newt sat but to the side of him. His voice low when he asks, “He's insane, isn't he?” There is the off chance that he has heard everything Thomas had said, or he can piece in the blanks if he only heard Newt's side of the… conversation. 

“No, he's just…” Newt hears the words before he says them and thinks better of it.  _ He's just angry. He's not usually like that.  _ What he is isn't an abuse victim who doesn't know better; he's an abuse victim who  _ does  _ know better. “He's the exact opposite,” Newt sighs. “He knows exactly what he's doing. Cold and calculating. I have to go back.” He turns his head away not to have to look at Minho when he protests. 

It's far more controlled than Newt would have expected when he does. “He's dangerous. I hate thinking about you going back to him after… everything.”

“I'm not going back for  _ him, _ ” Newt spits. “I don't have a choice and you know I wouldn't choose that place if I could.”

“You could—”

Newt gets up, legs holding somehow. “I'll be fine.” He turns to him. “I'll be back. Tonight,” he adds when Minho opens his mouth again which makes him shut it. They stare each other down until Minho folds. Newt knew he would, but he hadn't expected his defeat to hurt so bad for himself. 

“I'll get you your clothes.” 

Newt nods. He watches Minho leave the room, shoulder-slumped, looking far younger than normal in an oversized t-shirt and the crude wake up call hovering over him. It's not his fault and Newt hasn't treated him especially good today. Newt sighs again. 

They dress quietly. Newt feels the apathy pull at him, but he can't allow it, not yet. “Look,” Newt says when they're in the hallway. He's got his shoes on, jacket, phone in his pocket. It's gone too long already, he should be in the cab downstairs. Minho stands back against one of the walls, arms crossed, head slightly bowed. Newt takes a couple of steps, places himself in front of him and untangles his arms. “I know what I'm doing, okay?” Minho only watches as Newt puts his arms around himself, but he holds on tight when Newt lets him go to push them together. He presses his nose to Minho's neck and breathes him in, thinking about kissing him and just feeling him under his fingers. Falling asleep in his bed, laughing together, opening his beaten heart up to him. Newt swallows. “Thank you,” he says, and he knows it sounds too final, but he knows Thomas. It's not going to be easy to go back there and then Thomas won't let him go once he does 

“Be careful. Please.” The words are small, whispered into his hair and Newt holds him a little tighter before releasing him. It doesn't matter who lean in first because they both do it. It's tentative, too short and definitely not enough for a proper goodbye. Newt leaves anyway. 

~~

Thomas is so angry he doesn't even speak to him. He hauls him in and leaves him in his room for most of the day. Newt can hear him work, on the phone almost constantly, so he texts with Minho. When Thomas hadn't asked for his phone, Newt had been happily surprised but now he's terrified Thomas will suddenly remember that he has it and come scroll through all he has ever written to Minho. To make sure that doesn't happen, Newt hides under the covers.

**Minho:** Do you think he'll do anything drastic?

**Newt:** No. He needs me.

**Minho:** He really doesn't.

**Newt:** You know what I mean. He's not gonna kill me. But I don't know what else he'll do when he has calmed down enough to do anything.

**Minho:** Pack up. Leave. 

**Newt:** Yeah, right. 

**Minho:** Come back here, we'll call the police. 

**Newt:** You're lucky you're pretty because you're fucking stupid.

**Minho:** There has to be something. 

**Newt:** I don't have anything on him that won't fuck my own life over in the same breath. I wonder if he has a gun.

**Minho:** And I'm stupid for wanting to call the police? Wow. 

**Newt:** I could just shoot him in the foot. Let him know I mean business. 

**Minho:** Be serious, please. You have to get out of there. 

**Newt:** I know. I did pack, but I can't just leave. He'll notice before I'm even down the stairs. 

**Minho:** I could help.

**Newt:** You're sweet, but it would require something he could never silence, and from what I've seen of him? You and I would not be hard to silence.

**Minho:** I have a plan.

**Newt:** Oh wow, tell me all about it.

Newt wonders if maybe his sarcasm doesn't shine through enough when Minho doesn't answer.

**Newt:** C'mon, you're not serious.

**Newt:** Minho?

The covers are loud when he throws them off. He stares at his bag, laying zipped and sad on the floor, barely containing more than when he got here. Other clothes, mostly, and different condoms and cigarettes. The only thing he didn't have is the stack of money he has made. It's not like he has gotten himself much while locked up in here. He thinks about the car keys in Thomas' drawer again, but he still can't drive so there's no point. Maybe just to fuck with Thomas, but if Thomas ever got a hold of him after misplacing the keys for his multimillion-dollar car, maybe it wouldn't end with just getting— No. Don't even think about that. 

The obnoxiously loud doorbell can be heard even through his closed door. Good, if someone keeps Thomas occupied, maybe he'll forget all about Newt. If not for the fact the bell rings another two times and when Newt listens by his door, he can't hear Thomas moving around. There's no way he'll actually open—who knows what sort of guys could come storming in—but despite the fact, Newt eases his door open and peeks out the corridor. It's empty save the evening light smashing him in the face. Thomas door stands open. He takes a couple of steps out. “Thomas?” No answer. The doorbell rings a fourth time, which is one too many for someone casual. Newt's stomach lurches. He moves towards the stairs. The worst thing that could happen is if it's Ratman and knowing Newt, that's also the most probable. He'll try to get Newt for himself, and Thomas must be inclined to throw Newt to any wolf ready to catch him between their teeth. Please don't be Ratman, Newt thinks as he goes slowly down the stairs, gaze focused on the door. There is a flash of light, then another, like thunder without the rumble. Newt frowns. 

“You stay right the fuck there.” Thomas snaps his fingers at him when he glides up to the door from inside the house, looking undisturbed and hard-faced. Newt freezes in place. The door opens and the lightning goes into a bat shit crazy show. Flashes, Newt realizes. Camera flashes and Minho steps over the threshold. 

“Everyone out there knows I'm here to pick him up, so you better let him go with me.”

Newt knows that the words will get Minho  _ murdered  _ so he turns and bolts up the stairs again. Mostly, to not have to witness the blood bath, but on the off-hand chance that Thomas doesn't beat Minho to a bloody pulp, he gets his bag. On his way out the room, he turns to the master bedroom again and hesitates only a second before he runs in and rummages through Thomas' nightstand. He has seconds, if not less, before either of them will come looking for him. 

He's back in his own room before they do. Their voices mix together, creating his name in a chorus of emotions. That Minho can speak at all is a good sign, so Newt gets up from the bed, gripping his bag hard enough to hurt and he opens the door again. Minho gets up the stairs first, but Thomas is right behind him, looking like an explosion waiting to happen. He takes one look at Newt and his packed bag and he laughs.

“You planned this, you little rat.”

Newt shakes his head, neither defiance nor an answer. He just can't believe this is actually happening. 

Minho motions for him. “C'mon.”

Newt watches Thomas as he goes up to Minho, Minho's hand clasping over his upper arm to steady him. Thomas doesn't stop him. Not exactly, but he stands just above the stairs, leaning against the rail, arms crossed, sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up. He looks like he would beat the shit out of Newt if only he said a word, and he'd enjoy every second of it. 

Thomas doesn't move when Minho takes a step forward. “We're leaving.”

“I can see that.”

“Move.”

Thomas pushes away from the rail and towers over Newt. Expensive cologne, heat, his breath on Newt's upper lip. “You just remember who owns you, sweetheart, and who you owe your pathetic excuse of a life to. This isn't over.”

Newt didn't realize he had stopped breathing before Minho drags him down the stairs and he can take a breath. It's more of a sob and Minho's fingers press into his arm. No force, just a feeble attempt to comfort. Newt doesn't deserve him. 

The flashes are on him before the door is even fully open and this chorus of voices all have the same gossiping tone to them, an almost scream from every paparazzi that fills his ears and he lets them in, lets them fill him, lets himself disappear in the unjustifiable interest in his life and pretends that the “no comment” Minho hits them with is not to protect them both from medial execution but for keeping a normal sense of privacy. By the time they reach the awaiting cab, he's completely blind. How Minho deals with this on a daily basis is beyond him. He'll get used to it, he guesses. Then he realizes with the bang of the car door that would mean Minho would agree to date him, and in the sudden silence, that's a terrifying thought to even consider. 

“I'm sorry,” Minho says. Newt turns towards him, scoots over the middle seats to press up against him, and he hides his face in Minho's chest. He sobs, again and again, and Minho holds him tight, smoothing out creases on his jacket until Newt can't feel that part of his back anymore. Newt doesn't ask what he apologizes for and Minho doesn't elaborate. They both know instinctively that it's for whatever shitshow this will eventually lead to. What Thomas might do—to Minho, to Newt—for this rescue op. Newt holds the strap of his bag tight. He has no intention of letting Thomas do anything to either of them again. 


	7. Chapter 7

The mood never reels itself into triumph. Exhausted and wrung out, they come into the apartment and just stops in the hallway. Newt has stopped crying and now he just feels empty.

“We'll figure this out,” Minho says.

Newt looks up at him and realizes it only will if Newt thinks and acts fast. He fishes out his phone from his pocket and forces the back of it open. He takes out the battery and the sim card, breaking the latter in two. “I don't if he knows how to tap it or get my location but I'm not risking it. However. He knows where you live.” It's an irrefutable fact yet Minho shakes his head.

“He won't—”

Newt can feel his own voice come out cold. “You, frankly, have no idea what he will.”

Minho stares at him, but then he nods. “I'll call a hotel. Give me ten minutes to pack.”

“Thank you.”

Minho gives him a tiny smile and a peck on his cheek. This is probably the most stupid thing Newt has done in his entire life, and he has had his fair share of stupid moments. But they need to get away, at least for a bit and Minho has the resources to do so. Newt can pay him back later.

~~

The room smells like a hospital bed and it takes all of Newt's willpower to get his body inside the door. The lights blare on when Minho puts the key into its holder and the world is white sheets, the shuffling of blue paper robes, squiggly pear jello, disinfection _, “I'll take care of you_.”

“Newt?”

No. With his eyelids pressed hard together, he tells himself it's just a hotel room. They clean them regularly. His leg is _fine_. Look, he's already standing and you can't stand on a broken leg. “I need a minute.” Minho doesn't respond but Newt hears him move around the room, the window opening and honks of impatience drivers filters through the hum of monitor equipment. That's not true; no monitoring needed here. It's just the AC starting up. He opens his eyes. On the bed, Minho sits back against the headboard, shoes discarded. He's watching Newt, pretending he hasn't done so for longer than a second.

“This place smells like bad memories,” Newt admits.

Minho nods, and Newt can tell he doesn't understand. It's okay because he doesn't pretend to, just respects that not everything makes sense to him. Newt can practically feel his heart reach out to him for it. He holds out an alarming red bag. “Chips?”

Newt drops his bag on the ground, kicks his shoes off and slithers out of his jacket. The chips crunch and smell of onions. It has more flavor than all hospital food he has eaten combined. He sits down on the bed and eats a large handful. Doesn't remember when he ate anything last. Minho offers him the entire bag and Newt unashamedly downs it.

“I think I'll go stock up. You got any preferences?”

“No beetles.” Newt manages a small smile. “And no nuts; I'm allergic.”

Minho gets up with a groan. “You know, there's a gay joke in there somewhere, but I'm too tired to figure it out.”

Newt snorts.

When he comes back, Newt is asleep. He can't have slept for long and Minho can't have been away for much longer, but the nap only makes him more tired. He stays in bed, eyes closed, when Minho unpacks whatever provisions he's gotten. After he's done, he perches down on the side of the bed next to Newt, sighing. Newt can feel the heat from his fingers in the air above his cheek for a handful of seconds before Minho actually touches him. It's such an innocent touch, well-meaning, strengthening, and Newt knows Minho wouldn't have done it if he knew Newt was awake. “Are you taking advantage of me because I'm sleeping?” he asks, eyes kept closed. Minho flinches, the hand disappears and Newt pops an eye open. “I was kidding,” he explains when Minho moves away, and Newt reaches out a hand to keep him there.

“Sorry. I didn't—”

“Do it some more. It was nice.” He closes his eye again and lies back against the covers. When Minho doesn't immediately, Newt gives his leg a squeeze and makes a disapproving sound. Minho chuckles and then lets his fingers drift over Newt's face, mapping it out. Newt rubs his thumb on Minho's leg. If only he could stay like this.

~~

The sun is barely up when he wakes up the next time. Minho lies next to him on the bed but turned the other way. Newt's stomach screams in protest as soon as he's aware he's awake. Now he knows it was a full day since he had anything other than the chips from last night. He stumbles up and rummages through Minho's plastic bags, pulling out cans of soda and water, more chips, and—thank fuck—a few apples, a ridiculous amount of protein bars and a couple of triangle sandwiches. He downs a cheese and mustard before he has even registered that he has opened the package. Letting himself enjoy the cheap food, he stuffs himself until he's so full he feels he might puke instead. Probably should have paced himself.

There's nothing much to do except eating, and the two other things include watching: TV, or Minho. He partakes in both for an hour, two, then decides he needs a new phone. Stores open soon, he guesses, and he has sufficient money to get something cheap. God, when did he have this much money last? It makes him feel heavy to have to put it on something so stupid as a phone, but for the first time in a long time, he has someone he will want to be able to call.

The room doesn't provide a pen nor paper so the thought about leaving a note has to be dismissed. Instead, he unpacks a few items from his bag, mostly clothes, to show Minho he's planning on coming back, and then he leaves.

~~

The phone he gets is black and flat and doesn't say more than “hey, I'm a smartphone!” Technically, the price for it was remarkably cheap as he bought the last model of a phone going out of date, and the in-store view sample at that, but he wants to fall down on the sidewalk and cry when he brings out enough cash to own it. The cashier only looks once at his mismatched stack of bills and Newt is glad. Because he buys it straight off the rack, it's already fully charged when he turns it on. All he needs is a sim card, and he gets one in the nearest 24-hour convenient store. He doesn't fall down to the sidewalk, but he chooses a half-empty street and sits down on a staircase to some restaurants backdoor.

For the moment, he puts his new phone into his pocket. Instead, he rummages through his backpack and his fingers fold over the black, hardcover A5 book in an instant. Careful, as if the book might bite him, he pulls it out and lays it down in his lap. Not Thomas' car keys. But this, Stephenson's Black Book of Horror, is going to be better. This will give him the freedom that the keys never could.

He flips it open on a random page in the middle. Names. Numbers. Dates. Fees. It's not even in code. Thomas' bravado only gets him so far. He finds Sonya's name. _Sonya (Liza, Tempy, Lola)_. Her phone number is there as well as the address she stays on. And a few pages after that, his own. _Newt (Isaac, Nick)_. It's all there, they are all there. The escorts, their clients, their lives. Newt smiles. Then, it turns to a grin. He's going to bring Thomas to his motherfucking knees.

~~

Minho is awake when Newt strolls back in. He bolts up from the bed, the call he was obviously having forgotten when his hand lets the phone go onto the mattress. “Hey, are you okay? Where did you go? I thought we were staying low and sticking together. Did he call you? I got so scared, I woke up and you were just gone and I—” Minho stops dead in his tracks. “I'm acting a bit crazy, aren't I?”

Newt blinks at him. “A bit, yeah.”

“Sorry. I just… Jeez.” He wipes his forehead. “How possessive did that sound, scale one to ten?”

Newt smiles a tight smile and leans back against the wall. “Pretty possessive. Maybe a seven and a half.”

Minho drags a hand over his face. “You can leave and go however you want.”

“I know.”

“Good. I don't want to…” He doesn't want to be anything like Thomas, Newt knows that, too.

“It's okay. I went to get myself a new phone. Not heard anything from Thomas. Don't know how I would have.” Newt bites his lips together and they just stand there for a bit. “I'm going to have a shower. Maybe we can have hotel breakfast and not be weird when I get out?”

Minho snaps his fingers and points at Newt as if to say “that's the best idea I've ever heard, let's go with that” so Newt shakes his head and hops in the shower. After everything, he can handle some awkwardness but he rather not.

He comes out steaming hot and damp, only a towel wrapped around his waist. Minho snaps his head away and Newt fucks with him enough so that he turns his back to him and lets the towel drop before getting underwear on again. Let him suffer for making things weird.

“I think I need to shower, too.” Newt watches him over his shoulder as Minho bolts for the bathroom. Newt laughs.

When he comes back out, Newt sits on the bed, dressed and playing around with his new phone. “I added my new number to your phone, so now we have each other.” He glances up. Minho is already dressed again, only his wet hair makes him look like he's actually showered.

“You know,” Minho says and picks up his phone. “Dropping your clothes in front of someone is usually considered rude.”

Newt grins. “Of course, good I only dropped my towel, then.”

Minho purses his lips, trying not to smile. “Breakfast?”

“Breakfast.”

~~

Everything is fine until they come back up again and Newt unzips his bag.

“Here,” he says, holding out a stack of bills. “I probably owe you more for this, but… For now.”

Minho stares at the money as if it's a pile of dog shit. “I don't want money.”

Newt groans and shakes the green bills. “C'mon, don't be stupid. You've put enough money on me already. Let me, pay you back.”

“Newt. I don't need your money. Please, don't make me take it.”

“Well, what _do_ you want, then?”

Minho comes up to him, hesitant and his hand outstretched. Several times, he reaches up before putting his fingers delicately on Newt's chin. He shakes his head, and his voice quivers when he says, “I just want you safe.” He shrugs helplessly and Newt catches his wrist when he pulls away, the sudden vulnerability throwing him completely off.

“Minho… I'm here. I am safe.” Minho nods, fisting his hand in the air before laying it down on Newt's chest. He draws for breath but doesn't speak. Newt takes a step closer, licking his lips. “Do you… Do you want _me_ , too?”

“That's not—”

“—Why you're doing this, no, I know. That's not what I'm asking. I want you, Minho. So you can have me, if I can have you in return.” He tips Minho's chin up with a careful finger. Newt wishes that he will say yes, that he can have this, this one good thing. “I'll burn the money, I don't care, just, I… You have no idea who much you mean to me, Minho. I just want to be with you and forget all about the world and—”

Minho presses his lips to his in a desperate kiss. “You don't have to do anything you don't want.”

Newt pulls back. “I know. You're going to make sure of it.” Minho nods but he holds back even when kissing him. Newt cocks his head. “It has never been about sex with you,” he says. “I want to change that.”

“Okay.” Minho nods again, and the word comes out surer the next time. “Okay.”

Newt pushes at his chest, forces him to take a step back, then another. He grins and Minho smiles back as his as he gets down on the bed, sitting back against the headboard. With ease, Newt slips into his lap, wraps his arms around his neck and kisses him in all earnest. He doesn't remember being kissed like this, like it matters, so he believes he never has been before. It's a first he happily applies to Minho. _My first meaningful kiss_. And his second. And third.

Minho drags his hands over Newt's skin, steady fingers but with a hesitant quality before he asks, “This okay?” and Newt nods. His fingers dig deeper, feels for Newt's entire structure. Newt rocks into his grip, presses back against his fingers and gasps into Minho's mouth.

“Take it off,” he breathes when Minho tugs at the hem of the shirt. They laugh, forehead to forehead as the shirt gets stuck by Newt's wrists. Newt forces it off and throws it away. It's rather probable that he'll never use it again.

For some reason, Minho slows down. Newt would have thought the nakedness would generate another sense of urgency, but Minho watches his own fingers as he drags them over Newt's chest. “What are you doing?” Newt laughs.

Minho looks up. “Oh, I just…” He smiles. “Just looking.”

The smile that spreads on Newt's lips is carefree and he tugs at Minho's shirt. “I’d like to try that, too.” Minho lets him take his shirt off, only tucking some hair behind Newt's ear when he's bare-chested. Newt rolls his hips against him, finding pleasurable friction. Minho gasps.

“I can't sit like this for too long,” Newt tells him and moves against him again. Minho nods, lips parted. Newt puts a hand on the headboard, which eases the strain on his leg and Minho looks at Newt like the world revolves around him. Newt wants to fuck him like this just to have him keep looking like that. “My leg fucks up,” Newt explains, moving a little quicker. “I usually overexert myself and deal with the pain afterwards, with… clients.” He swallows, the familiar burn just above his knee flaring up as he speaks. “It should be different with you.”

“Of course,” Minho says and holds him close. “This is for both of us, yeah? We should feel good together. What do you want?”

Newt slows down and stops. The pain eases down into unease, which he can live with for a moment. “Hickies,” he says. “Give me a shitload of hickies.”

Minho laughs, but he leans forward, presses his lips to Newt's neck and sucks. A breath escapes Newt; he has not allowed anyone to mark him in a long while. Thomas' rule— _always condoms, never marks_ —has been ingrained in him and it feels good to defy it. To make himself unfit for Thomas' work, to give him a big middle finger. If he could, he'd let Minho fuck him raw just for the spite of it. But he's not stupid, so he just whimpers as Minho colors his neck red and purple and asks him to do it more when he comes up for a kiss every once in a while. Minho keens and obliges every time.

“I want to—” Newt swallows, feeling suddenly nervous. Shit, when was the last time he felt nervous about fucking? “I want…” And that's the difference, he realizes. For such a long time, he has had sex to satisfy other people's needs and wants. It's not been about him. Ratman never cared about him, Thomas always needed a show, clients only ever cared about themselves, and Newt was just a tool for all of them to use. Quiet, pliant, his own needs discarded. Everybody's good boy.

Now, Minho looks at him, waiting for him to find the words to describe what he wants, what will make him feel good, what Minho can do for him. Newt chokes on the words and just leans in to kiss him again. Minho doesn't pressure him, doesn't try to coax it out of, just keeps kissing him. He doesn't even try to move forward with what _he_ wants. It's all too much, and when Newt tries to take a breath, it comes out a sob.

“Hey,” Minho says and hugs him tight. “It's okay.”

Newt holds onto him hard. The safety of the embrace first drags a few more sobs from him. Then it relaxes him and he yawns against Minho's shoulder.

“Do you want to sleep?” Minho asks, half a joke, half a serious question.

Newt pulls back and smiles. “My leg hurts. But I think I want to have sex.”

“You think?”

“I might change my mind.”

Minho smiles and nods. “Alright. You wanna get naked, lie down?”

“Yeah.” With effort, Newt pushes off Minho and rolls down on the bed.

“Mind if I?” Minho indicates Newt's pants and Newt nods. Minho unbuttons, unzips and drags his skinny jeans off. Newt helps by lifting his hips and he watches as Minho stands and takes off his own, nodding when Minho asks silently if that's still alright. As Minho still stands next to the bed, taking his socks off, Newt slips his underwear down and throws them away together with his own socks. Minho looks at him, all of him, and Newt likes his gaze.

“You too,” he says and motions for Minho's underwear, straining against his very apparent hard-on. Newt slips under the covers and makes room for Minho to get down next to him. He watches Minho, naked and patient. “C'mon, get under here.”

Minho's skin against Newt's skin is a human fire and Newt pulls him close, eagerly kissing him again. Minho caresses every inch of him with sure fingers until he reaches Newt's lower abdomen. “Can I touch you?”

Newt swallows. “Yeah.”

Slowly, Minho lets his fingers trace the outline of Newt's cock which bobs and fills out just by the suggestion of being touched. He finds the tip, wet with pre-cum and he pushes the pad of his thumb against it. Newt breathes in harshly.

“Okay?” Minho asks.

“Yes, yes, please—”

Minho wraps his fingers around him, tugging him once, twice. Newt bucks into the touch but Minho keeps his pace slow, grip tight. Newt surges in to kiss him again, doesn't know what else to do than to find himself in the situation and enjoy it. Minho smiles into the kiss, Newt can feel it and it makes him smile, too. “Finger me?” he asks quietly.

“Do you have lube?”

“In my bag, I'll—” But before Newt can say he'll get it, Minho is already halfway out of bed to do so. Newt rolls onto his back and watches him cross the room stark naked. “Right compartment.” Mino unzips it and fishes condoms and lube out. He holds up a condom and waits for Newt's agreement before he brings it over. He puts the condom on Newt's nightstand and when he gets down, he takes a minute to hover on top of him, kissing him into a puddle, before lying down next to him, only a leg hooked over Newt's.

“Still want me to—”

“Yeah, just… Kiss me, too?”

Minho leans in and licks at his bottom lip. “Of course.”

He takes his time fiddling with the lube and Newt laughs at him, but he takes just as much time when he actually gets his hands on Newt. First, he just rubs his finger against his rim, pressing only every so slightly, and when he finally pushes his finger inside, Newt breaths so harshly and is so hard he doesn't know what to do with himself.

“Fucking _christ_.”

“Mhm?” Minho grins against his cheek.

Newt tries to tell him to shut up but it falls into a whine and a moan. Minho fingers him knowing what he's doing, and only adds a second finger when Newt asks him to. Newt lets him explore, see what works and what doesn't and holds onto Minho's arm in an iron grip. He thinks maybe Minho could make him come like this, just massaging his prostate and not even paying attention to his cock. One day, he's going to let him try. “If you fuck me…” Newt starts and Minho's fingers slow to a gentle easing in and out.

“Yeah?”

“...Can you do it like this? Just… Slow?”

“That what you want?”

“I… Yes.”

“Then yes.”

“But what do you want?”

“I want you to feel as good as you possibly can, in any way I can.”

Newt's heart clenches. “That's… nice,” he forces out and Minho kisses him.

“Condom,” Minho says, nodding towards the nightstand. He has a hand around himself, jerking himself off to put it on. Newt can barely see under the cover but he still looks as he hands the condom over, anticipation rising.

Minho asks for every change if it's an okay one. When he puts the condom on, when he gets up on top of Newt, when he kisses him, when he pushes the head of his cock inside him. Newt says yes, yes, and nods, feeling good about everything. Minho eases himself inside, slow strokes, letting Newt's body adjust each time before pushing in a little further and only slightly harder. Newt keeps staring at Minho's face and Minho keeps looking down at him, so eventually, they start smiling about it, then laughing, and then Minho is fitted fully inside him, chest pressed to Newt's and they're giggling through kisses.

“Can I move?” Minho asks. Newt can feel that he's softening even when they're fitted together. No friction, he presumes, and he nods.

“I want you to.”

“Still slow?”

Newt nods. And Minho complies.

Minho's thrusts are deliberate and calculated, in the absolute best of ways. He touches Newt's body the best he can, getting down on an elbow to get a free hand to do so, and he trails his lips lightly over Newt. They breathe the same air, gasping it between them. Newt curls his fingers into Minho's hair and can feel his entire body tingle when Minho drives into him. He loves the feeling.

Minho warns him, Newt urges him on, and then Minho comes. He doesn't even speed up, the oversensitivity and intimacy pushing him over the edge. Newt finds it fascinating and extremely hot.

“Touch me,” he asks when Minho stills and opens his eyes again. “Fast, please.”

Minho lubes up his hand with the remains of the packet and jacks Newt off, still inside him. He does it quickly and snapping and Newt moans deep in his throat, coming within the minute, arching off the bed.

~~

The hickies shine in the yellow bathroom light. Newt drags his fingers along them, connecting them with an invisible stroke. He's never had so many hickies in his life, not at one point nor every one combined, and it makes him smile to look at them. Minho made them, but it's Newt's mark to his own body. He's his own. His to do whatever he wants with.

The limp is more pronounced than he would have thought when he steps out of the bathroom. He must've sat in Minho's lap for longer than he'd thought. The duration of which they kissed and Minho gave him hickies could have counted in minutes or hours, Newt has no idea, only that it flew past as if time was suddenly faster than normal. He doesn't care. For once, hours aren’t counted in dollar bills.

“How are you? How's the leg?” Minho asks. He rummages through his clothes and comes up, giving Newt a peck on the lips before going back to his clothes. Newt touches his own lips and looks at him, stunned.

“It's fine—” He changes his mind. “I'm good. This was… great, really. Leg could be better.”

Minho tugs on some sweats and jumps back into bed. “Something happen to make it like that?”

It's a casual question that doesn't have a casual answer. Newt nods. “Yeah. I tried to kill myself.”

Minho stares at him. “What?”

With a sigh, Newt sits down next to him. Minho reaches out for him immediately, covering Newt's hand with his own. “Can I tell you about it?”

“If you want to.”

“I… Think I do. I'd like you to know, anyway, and that means telling you is the way to go.” He has never told anyone. Not the truth, not the full extent of it. Bits and pieces, scraps and half-lies, but never everything. For the first time, he feels like the person listening will actually care about his reasons, motives, and situation. He nods. It's time.

“Take your time.”

“I was seventeen. Or, no, that's not the best way to start. Lemme…” He takes a deep breath. “My mom,” he restarts, “remarried when I was only a few years old. This construction worker, Janson. He was a terrible substitute father already then, always saying stupid shit about my grades and social circles and he forbade me to do the most normal things, like watching TV or have ice cream if I made a few bucks walking the neighbor's dog. He's a piece of shit, but he was the only… _father_ I had known.

“Then I hit puberty. Started high school. Janson and my mom had been married for ten years by then, which they had spent fighting, drinking and scraping by on money that didn't exist. I noticed him looking at him differently when I was fourteen. Lingering, interested. I'd never seen it before, and I couldn't place it before I had my first kiss with a boy I liked. He didn't look at me in the same way, but it was close enough that I understood Janson…

“The older I got, the worse it became. The looks turned to stares, to him lingering in my room for no reason, getting reasons to touch me—innocent touches, as he called them—like clasping my shoulder, brushing my cheek with his hand, our legs connecting when we sat next to each other. I… I didn't know what to do. He told me I was pretty. That I couldn't date. I didn't go to prom, not even with Lizzie who was a girl and I was clearly not interested in girls, because he didn't like me spending time with people who could potentially take me away from him. He said… that I was— I was his.

“It wasn't… bad, not really, until he let it slip he was waiting for me to be legally adult. He was… smart, that way, I guess. He figured if I would tell anyone then, when I was eighteen, he could always argue that we were to consenting adults. He couldn't be tried for statutory rape. I guess I should be thankful for my younger self for that. It could have been a lot worse than it was.”

He takes a breath. Minho has only clasped his hand tight and met his gaze whenever Newt has dared to look at him. Minho smiles a little. “You don't have to be thankful for that at all.”

Newt laughs quietly. “Yeah. Anyway. I decided that if I never turned eighteen, he couldn't do anything, right? So, I just…. I stepped off a roof. A week before my eighteenth birthday. I considered jumping in front of the train but I couldn't have anyone else involved in my mess so— Big surprise, I didn't die. I broke my leg. Got a concussion. I had three or four surgeries to fix my knee, and the whole thing got cast, thigh to foot. I had complications. It took over six months to heal properly. I missed most of Senior year. I should still be in physical therapy.

“I had wanted to die before, but that was nothing compared to waking up in that hospital bed, tubes in my arms, a busted leg and finding Janson's hand in mine and knowing I couldn't even run away. My mom hadn't even shown up, but there he was. He volunteered to help me with physical therapy. ‘I'll take care of you,' he said. He also talked my doctors out of admitting me to the psych ward for evaluation, which otherwise is customary for suicide attempts. His commitment to me, helping me dress and undress, shower, walk, would have been admirable if not for the fact that he used every opportunity to get his hands all over me.

“I wanted nothing else than for it to stop. If I wasn't so scared to survive again with more complications, I would have made another attempt. So, the option was to survive anyway, get away as soon as possible. I… No one ever gets anywhere without a high school diploma, I argued, so I retook Senior year. If I just had my diploma, I could leave, get out of town and…. I don't know what I thought what I'd do but that diploma kept me alive. I also slept around as much as I could with any and all guys who would have me, just to water out Janson from my mind. Make him one in a sea of people. I sucked it up, I endured.

“I got my diploma. It wasn't a ticket anywhere. Not to college, not to another town, not out of Janson's clutches. I ran away the summer after graduation. My friends, though I didn't have many, had graduated the year before and most of them I wasn't close enough to from the beginning, but I managed to couch surf for a few months. Fucked some dudes just to have a place to stay. Just… Jumped beds, couches, semi-friends, then one day, there was no one left. Just me, squatting. And then… Tada. Thomas shows up.

“He was… kind, I guess. Always exchanging favors, but he always framed things as choices. Janson never gave me choices, so I… I fell for it. Thought for a while that I had fallen for Thomas as well, but— It was just one entitled man exchanged for another, you know?”

“I'm sorry all of this has happened to you.”

“Yeah. I don't know if I've processed that it has. I'm not even twenty yet so it's not like it's… a long time ago. I think maybe one day I'll just wake up and realize I'm completely destroyed.”

“You're not destroyed, Newt.”

Newt laughs. “Pretty fucked up, though.”

Minho smiles. “You've been through some tough shit, I'd be surprised if you weren't.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Of course it does.” Newt looks away, he knew it was a possibility it would. But then Minho surprises him by saying, “I'd be even more fucked if I wasn't bothered by everyone's fucked up behaviors. Like, for starters, I want to chop that guy Janson's head off.”

With a tight smile, Newt says, “I call him Ratman.”

Minho doesn't laugh. “That's too nice a nickname.” Minho rubs a thumb on Newt's hand. “Thank you for telling me. For trusting me with this.”

“Well. I'm deep in the shit with you, so.”

“You're… very brave, you know that?” Minho looks at him with what seems to be admiration.

Newt snorts and punches him in the arm. “Shut up.”

~~

“You sure you don't want any money?”

They lie curled up on the bed, watching Escape the Country and talking about other things, not sex or fucked up life situations. Minho's hand in Newt's hair stills. “You're just paying and I feel… I feel like a freeloader.”

“Really. Money means nothing to me. You put what you got on some new clothes and college applications.”

Newt pushes back from his chest, far enough to stare at him. “Why on earth do you think I want to go to college?”

“Why else would you be so dead set on graduating high school?”

“If I could, I'd go. But I can't afford it, obviously, and I could never get a scholarship now.”

“We'll worry about that later. Just, let me ease your life for a bit. You can pay me back when you've got things figured out, okay? But not until then. And you're going to apply for college.”

Newt nods. The thought of college life, a job that doesn't involve men fucking him, it all seems way off in a distant future, or a different life. But he wants it. He wants it bad.

~~

“Dude,” Newt says, “what's up with your phone?”

It has taken him better part of the day to realize the constant buzzing isn't part of the hotel experience but rather Minho's phone vibrating almost constantly.

Minho looks over at his nightstand, leaning back enough for cold air to sweep in between them. Newt presses in even closer when he comes back. “Oh, it's nothing. Mostly Instagram.”

“And what does Instagram want?”

Minho laughs. “Well. I've sort of went off the grid, you know? Yeah, and I did that just after the second wave of pictures of us went public and… People are mostly DMing me, congratulating me on my first romantic getaway with my new boyfriend.” Newt heart feels too big for his ribcage. Minho strokes a hand over his cheek, smiling. “I haven't uploaded anything, not even a story, in a few days so people are assuming things are going _very_ good.”

Newt bites his lip. “Can I see?”

“My DMs?”

“No, your Instagram. I've never even been on Instagram.”

“Sure. Download the app and I'll show you.”

Newt brings out his phone and does as told. He realizes he needs to make an account and sits with his phone for a long time before choosing his handle, using an old email address he actually can remember his password for the verification. He verifies his email and _Isaacsin_ is back online. He hasn't used that name since he was on MSN as a kid and chatted with Lizzie in the late night, but he figures it's the least conspicuous right now. He can be Isaac on the net for a while. Maybe, he thinks and looks over at Minho, he wouldn't mind being nicknamed Isaac again sometimes. “I'm in,” he says with his best hacker voice.

Minho puts an arm around his shoulder, leaning in and shows Newt around, lips close to his cheek and kissing him every once in a while. Newt gets a hang of it quickly and asks for Minho's handle.

“I… Hm.” Minho looks embarrassed.

Newt arches a brow. “So? What is it?”

“Minhoe,” Minho spells out.

“You are such a dork,” Newt says and taps it out while shaking his head. Minho's Instagram is aesthetically pleasing. It's mostly black and white, but not.in the sense that the pictures are desaturated, but instead that there are no colors present. He must work on it quite a bit. Maybe that's part of the reason why he has a ridiculous amount of followers. His image count says 2348, and Newt puts the feed to one picture at a time and meticulously goes through it. He double taps every picture he passes, even when he reaches down to last year and pictures of Minho ex-boyfriend shows up, and even before that when an ex-girlfriend does. He's not jealous, he just wants to know everything about him there is to know and Newt likes that he can get a small insight into Minho's life through his feed. Minho pushes at his shoulder and tells him to shut up any time Newt shows him one of his own selfies, asking how he can be so hot in pictures but even hotter in person.

“This makes it look like your wardrobe is mostly black,” Newt says after a while.

“It's Instagram,” Minho says. “Most of everything on there is a lie or at least a construct. I look at it… more as art than an accurate representation of life. If that makes sense?”

Newt nods and likes that explanation. He puts the phone down for now and hugs his legs. “So, what's your real life like?”

Minho grins wide at the question. “Probably more insane. I travel a lot. Train even more.”

“Shouldn't you be doing any of that right now?”

“Yep, but I've cleared it with my coach.”

“How?”

“I told her my boyfriend had legal issues coming up and that we needed to get away for a bit. It's close enough to the truth, I think. But I need to be back on the track by Friday.”

Newt blinks at him. Boyfriend? He doesn't know how to ask whether or not that was part of the “close to truth” or if that was simply _the_ truth. Instead, he ignores it completely and lies down again. “Tell me more about your life. About your parents. Your dad's shop.”

Minho lies down next to him, fingering at his hand and tells him how his parents met in his dad's store, thirty-five years ago. Minho is the youngest of three siblings, his mother is a seamstress, and he never had time to meet any of his grandparents. Newt listens to him talk about his family, fascinated to hear how it has been for Minho to grow up in a functioning family.

“So, I know…” Minho says and brings Neet hand forward so he can kiss it. “I know that the… Isaac I got to know isn't exactly real.”

“No.”

“But I just wanted to know… Sorta how much of _you_ he was?”

Newt pulled at Minho's hand and brought it up to his own face, and kissed the bridge of it. “I told you mostly the truth. Some things I twisted, some I omitted, but I… I didn't use Isaac with anyone but you—and Gally—and you were different so I didn't lie as much as I did when I used ‘Nick.'”

“Alright.”

“Would you take a picture of us? Post it?”

Minho looks at him, confused a first, then his face splits into a grin. “You want me to _confirm_ all the rumors?”

Newt bites his lip. “Yeah, why not?”

Minho pushes in and kisses him. “Mostly because of the press and paparazzi. And the followers, or fans, or whatever. People are… pushy. They will send you very intimate questions. Might send you hate. Your face might be in magazines again. Especially until I have made a public statement about you, more so than something small on Instagram.”

Newt nods, considering. “Would you normally do it?”

Minho's gaze is scrutinizing when he tries to figure out exactly what Newt means with “normally.” In the end, he nods. “Yeah, I would.”

Newt shrugs a little, his heart beating hard. “Do you want to?”

“I do.”

Newt looks on as Minho picks up his phone and snaps a quick picture of their hands tangled together on the sheets. He looks on as Minho taps one-handed before Newt's phone dings with two notifications and Minho puts his own down.

Newt has a new follower on Instagram. Minhoe follows you. His first ever follower. And a message tells him that Minhoe has tagged him in his story. Newt taps the picture as if he doesn't know exactly how it looks already. But a tiny scrawl also says @isaacsin and next to it: “fave.”

“Do you want to be with me?” Newt asks and looks up.

Minho smiles wide. Doesn't answer, just turns the question back on Newt. “Do you want to be with me?”

Newt cannot stop the smile that spreads on his face.

They're rudely interrupted by Minho's phone, this time a call from a friend that Minho decides to take. He sits up in bed. “On Instagram?” Minho says, feigning confusion and smirking down at Newt. “Mhm? We have some mutual friends, met him at a party a few months ago. Aha. Mhm. Yeah.”

Newt likes that explanation because it's practically the truth. He kisses Minho senseless after he has hung up.

~~

They are woken up from a late night nap by Newt's phone chiming again. He had turned off Instagram notifications within the hour since it kept blowing up with comments tagging him and DMs asking him about everything from earth to heaven.

 **Sonya:** All clear. Everyone's out, phone in my pocket. Better do it now.

Newt turns to Minho. “I'm going to do a thing. It might come back to fuck with me, us.”

Minho doesn't even ask what he's planning. “Do it.”

Newt nods and goes to make his call.

~~

It's quiet for all of Wednesday. The go to the library and Newt gets help learning how and when and where he can apply for community college.

It's quiet on Thursday, too. Minho takes him out for fancy pizza and posts an in-feed picture of Newt's new sneakers.

When Friday morning arrives and Newt still has heard nothing, he gets antsy. Minho tries to cheer him up by bringing up breakfast to him in bed and it helps a little, but it's not until Newt gets the text that he feels like he can breathe again.

 **Sonya:** It's on the news.

Newt throws his toast onto his plate and Minho has to lift everything off the bed not to have Newt spill orange juice all over it as he searches for the remote. The segment is at its final twenty seconds when Newt finds the local news.

Thomas' face fills the screen. Newt didn't think he ever would be happy to see it again, but together with the announcer's words of “arrested” and “large amounts of illegal drugs” and “prosecuted for possession to sell,” Newt can allow himself to be happy to see him one last time.

“What the fuck?” Minho stares at him in disbelief. “What the actual fuck, Newt?”

“I told you I was doing a thing!” Newt laughs.

“You didn't tell me it involved getting Stephenson forty years behind bars!” Minho laughs, too.

The shipment was located in the basement, Newt knows. He knows a lot of things he's not supposed to use and the fact that he did makes him feel like he has won the lottery. “I stole his book on us. The escorts. Sonya, one of the others, stole his phone two days ago. That combined gave us everything we needed, but also they contained all traces of us to him. Without the black book, there are no records and without his phone, well. Sonya made sure everyone was okay with the plan and that no one was at the house when I called it in. I don't know if the cops will find us, and if they will, if they will do anything about it, but Sonya assured me everyone was willing to take the risk.”

Minho crawls over and hugs him tight. “You…” But he doesn't finish. Newt knows what he means, anyway. Minho might have swooped in like a knight in shining armor, but Newt knows that he can handle himself. He's cunning and smart, he took down his own abuser and jailed him, and Minho is impressed, proud, and—like Newt—so very fucking relieved.

He holds on to Minho, and it takes him a minute, two, before it really hits him. He starts crying, happy tears that he doesn't care to wipe away, and he laughs into Minho's shoulder. He's going to be okay. They're going to be together. He has a long way to go and he doesn't know how he'll ever afford college or get a job but it doesn't matter right now. He's alive, and he doesn't hate the feeling, doesn't fear the future. And when Minho asks, “Wanna come watch me run for my life?” Newt nods because he knows that _he_ will never have to run again. For the first time in forever, Newt is free. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's a surprise epilogue, will be up some day this week
> 
> oh oh yeah, this is also now officially my longest uploaded fic of any of my 80+ fics. thought that a funny trivia for you


	8. Epilogue

Sonya wears a cobalt blue halter neck that makes her eyes look like they're glowing. Newt waves and she trips forward to hug him tight. “Ready to fuck some shit up?” she asks with a grin.

Newt can't help but grin back and then looks at the gang she had brought. “Oh yeah,” he says. “I can't wait to see the look on his face.” 

Sonya waves a hand at their friends, a bunch of ex-prostitutes which Newt has gotten to know beyond their labor, and he smiles brightly at all of them, thanking them for helping him out. 

They walk in a group, Sonya at the front, towards the construction site. Burly men of all ages stare at them as they are halfway to undressed in the summer heat. Newt doesn't even care about the wolf whistles; he scours the place, looking for their mark. He feels dizzy when he spots him coming out from a barely standing building to the right. He pulls at Sonya's dress and nods. “That's him.” 

Sonya takes in the site of him and her mouth turns into a snarl before she scolds her features into a heartbroken mess. “ _ Ian!”  _ she cries out and hurries away from their group. 

Ratman snaps his head towards her, then around to see if there's anyone she could have talked to. But Sonya charges towards him, actual tears streaming down her face. “Ian,” she says again and then she is completely on him, clinging to his arm when Ratman tries to pull away. “You said you were going to save me,” Sonya wails. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Ratman says. He manages to shake her off and Sonya falls down on the ground, crying and reaching for him. 

With wonderful timing, Enrique pulls away from the group and calls out, “No, he's mine, you bitch!” 

Ratman looks up to see Enrique approach and takes a step back. Newt stands off to the side, hidden mostly from view as the two other people act out their hurt and betrayal because Ratman was going to save them from sex work too, he had promised last time and the time before that. When Ratman has a person clinging to each limb, holding him in place by dragging him in all directions at once, Newt steps forward. As on queue, he sees Newt. Newt doesn't smile. He takes a step forward.“ _ Dad _ ,” he cries, “who are these people? I thought you loved  _ me _ , we were going to be together  _ forever _ .” 

Newt can see Ratman's wheels turning. When he looks around this time, a crowd has gathered. Dozens of workers in yellow helmets and orange jackets, all looking at Newt, his friends, and Ratman in the middle. They whisper, and Newt knows this is going to work. 

“Newt!” Ratman calls for him and Newt carefully takes a few steps.

“Dad?” he says again, swallowing the urge to puke at it. 

“Stop this nonsense!” 

“They say you bought them, dad, and you said you loved them. But I thought I was special?” Newt isn't as good an actor as Sonya, but he manages a quiver in his voice. “You took my  _ virginity,”  _ Newt says and can't be more happy about the fact that he hadn't.” 

“Newt!” Ratman yells this time. “Shut the fuck up! He doesn't know what he's talking about!” 

But Newt walks up close to him, too close to be comfortable. “Dad, I want to come home. Don't make me work for that man anymore, he touches me everywhere, dad.” 

“Stop calling me that! I'm not your fucking dad!” 

Despite wanting to grin widely at that, Newt forces himself to gasp out and take a step back. “But you love me? You said so.” 

Instead of letting Ratman answer, Sonya starts wailing again, loud enough to silence any and all of Ratman's attempts to answer. Newt holds his gaze hard, and mouths a very clear “fuck you” before turning on his heel and sprinting off. 

He gets out of the site before he starts laughing. A bubble from deep within, a laugh of desperate relief and self-proclaimed freedom. Then he's crying through the tears and Sonya's arms are around him. He holds onto her, sobbing into her shirt for minutes before he can compose himself. “You think I ruined his life?” Newt asks in a hush whisper. 

“I think he ruined his life when he put his hands on you,” Sonya smiles. “It just took until now to catch up with him. Let's get you home.” 

Newt nods. Home. His stomach feels warm with the notion. Home, and  _ Minho _ . 

~~

There's a large envelope on the table when he comes home. It has his name on it, Newt Isaacs, and it's the first piece of mail he has ever gotten to this apartment. The first he has gotten for years, really. “I'm home!” he calls out and picks up the crisp white paper. 

“Be right out!”

Newt pries the back open and slips out the folded piece of paper inside. He opens it slowly, heart thumping. He reads it once. Twice. Three times, before he calls out, “BABE!” He stares at the letter, black on white, and can't even look up when Minho runs in. 

“Are you okay? What's happening? Newt?” 

Finally, Newt raises his gaze. He can't see him because there are tears in his eyes. He takes a quick breath and wipes his eyes as Minho slowly takes step forward. This wasn't what he was supposed to have told Minho when he got home, but this definitely trumps talking about messing with Ratman. He stares down at the letter again. “I got in,” he says, a brittle laugh escaping him. 

Minho stops dead. “What?!” His face splits into the largest grin Newt had ever seen, and he clasps a hand around Newt's neck, pushing their foreheads together. “I knew you would, Newt, this is awesome.” 

“I—” Newt closes his eyes and swallows. Minho leans back to give him space, and Newt smiles at him. “I got the grant, too. My tuition will be cut in half… or like, seventy percent or something.” He would be able to keep a part-time job and still get by. “And Garcia called me back, wants to meet with me on Tuesday, so I'll probably bust tables for the—”

Minho pulled him into a fierce hug and the rest of Newt's sentence disappeared into the warmth of his chest. “Dude, we have to celebrate. This is fucking  _ huge _ .” 

Newt holds on to him and can't hold back the tears or the laughter. He's going to college. He's finally getting a proper job. He can finally force Minho to let him pay some rent. His entire body feels at once on fire and heavy as lead, and Newt lets all his weight fell on Minho. Minho holds him up without fault, and it's the most reassuring thing Newt had ever felt. 

“You did it,” Minho says and pets his hair. “All by your goddamn self, babe, you did it.” 

“Yeah,” Newt says and fists his hands in Minho's shirt, smiling. “I fucking did it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thas it. Hope you liked it. Please give it a kudos if you did, a comment if you're in the mood  
> Thanks to Lovi for this dream-prompt that got giant and out of hand but is actually finished??   
> Been a ride

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment if you're reading. Is there anyone reading Minewt anymore? And if you are, are you reading this kind of shit??


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